


Spooky Scary Musketeers

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampires, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Dirty Talk, First Time, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M, Magic, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Romance, Seduction, Telepathy, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 16:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "Oh — you taste —""I taste like your *blood*. Do you need me to stop?""No!"





	1. It's going to take at least a century or so for Treville to figure out how to have actual conversations with people.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts), [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts).

> Disclaimers: *reflexive belch of CYA*
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Pre-series and ludicrously AU about things. 
> 
> Author's Note: I said in multiple places, in multiple ways, that it was time for some cliché fic -- and I just happened to have this WIP sitting around waiting to be finished. Always save something for a rainy day, kids. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love and appreciation to the usual suspects, all of whom helped this story be much better than it otherwise would've been. My Jack really put their back into fixing my fuck-ups this time.
> 
> Mostly... 'tis the season, y'all.

Of the impressively long list of cock-ups Treville has been a party to over the course of his existence — 

"Are you brooding, amant?" 

Treville blinks — 

Pauses —

And then turns to *look* at Jason, who is shamelessly examining everything he can get his hands on in Treville's office now that he has free rein to do so. 

He is not, technically, paying any attention to Treville. 

He's not even *facing* — 

He doesn't have to. 

"I truly don't." 

Treville sighs and pockets Kitos's lucky dice, which had always seemed too small for his great paws — 

He sighs more — 

"I *especially* don't have to face you when you do *that*, amant." 

"I wasn't brooding about the *current* situation, lover." 

Jason looks at him. 

He doesn't turn around from where he's rifling through one of the cabinets, but he's still looking at Treville. 

"Yes, I am." 

Treville — doesn't sigh again. "I'm — going to miss this place," he says, for the first time since he'd woken up in Jason's bed — in *Jason*'s* bed, in Jason's *home*, where they never actually *went*, because it was too *dangerous* — 

For mortals — 

For mortal witches — 

Treville isn't one of those, anymore. 

He isn't — 

He takes Laurent's positively horrible and exclamatory and *silk*-intensive designs for Musketeer-uniforms and slips them into his bag. 

Jason is silent. 

Treville strokes his desk — 

His chair — 

Will it go to a worthy man after him? Someone who can manipulate Louis and be a bulwark against Richelieu?

He winces. He hasn't had the *time* to really *train* a successor — 

"Amant..." 

"Mm?" 

"I want you to know that I will always regret —" 

"Stop," Treville says — growls. It's a lot more menacing and *eldritch* than his growls used to be, but he'll take that for now — 

"Amant —" 

"*Stop*. That was a *massive* nest of undead *warriors*, and you needed an ally. I was available. I knew every last one of the risks going in. I *chose* this," Treville says, and looks at Jason — until he looks back. 

There's bleakness in those reddish-brown eyes, and regret — 

Treville can't take that right now. "Don't, brother. Don't — we both know there's no way back." 

Jason smiles ruefully. "It's my nature to look for such things. To... hope for such things." 

"Hope all you like — I have a life to live. I *won't* be spending it maundering around looking for ways to have what I've lost." 

And Jason looks at him *hungrily* for long moments — 

"I like that expression better —" 

"I like *you*," Jason says, and reaches out — and hands over a scrap of fabric that Treville doesn't remember, at first. 

And then it's in his hands, and the feel of it triggers countless memories. Reynard tearing his shirt to bandage a small wound on Treville's arm, Reynard tying it and retying it *obsessively*, Reynard ripping the bandage away and *kissing* the wound, *licking* it — 

("Meneur, I need you in my *veins*!") 

As ways to find out that one's brother desired you went... there were a lot worse ones. 

Treville smiles and tucks it in his saddlebag. 

"Was there a reason you kept *that* memento with the *invoices*, amant?" 

"To keep me from getting randy at inopportune moments — i.e., all the bloody time." 

Jason hums. "Words cannot express how much I would give to have known your brothers." 

"My *other* brothers, Jason," Treville says, and gives Jason a stern look — but can't keep it. His memories are too close. He shakes his head. "They would've loved you." 

"Hmm. I do wonder how they would have felt about my tendency to put you in harm's way even more often than you did, yourself —"

Treville lets his new, sharp fangs slip down and down and down. "Reynard would've appreciated the all-new ways we'd found for him to bleed for me. For him to *feed* me." 

Jason makes a low, hungry sound *while* reaching for the — cursed — bastard sword on his back. 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "About that mixed message..." 

"Oh — fuck. I *apologize* *profusely* for that reflex, amant. I *will* fix it —" 

"Mm. In the meantime, I won't do anything precipitous when I'm feeling... amorous," Treville says, and grins. 

"That's *tragic* —" 

"I didn't tell you to spend six hundred years killing *every* undead blood-drinker you came across —" 

"Not *every* one —" 

"No?" 

"There were at least two or three dozen that escaped before I could burn them to ash." 

Treville snorts — 

"The first time." 

"*Jason*." 

Jason leans against the shelving and smiles ruefully. "I've met remarkably *few* blood-drinkers of your sort who were *worth* leaving alive, amant. Other Jasons tell me that it's different on other spheres, that 'rogue' undead are hunted down by the others and put down before they can do *much* harm..." 

"*Really*." 

"Yes, rather fantastic, isn't it...?" 

Treville scratches at his beard. It doesn't truly itch — it hasn't since he'd woken up changed, away from that fuck-awful abattoir of a nest, safe and warm in Jason's bed — 

And he'd been able to see every shadow, see where every shadow began and *ended* — 

He'd been able to see where every shadow was *connected* to Jason — and he'd been able to feel, far better than ever before, all the ways the shadows were connected to the third being in Jason, the being *between* Jason and Etrigan. 

He'd known himself for what he was — for what he'd *become* — and he'd begun making plans for the future, as much as was possible. 

"I was so..." And Jason shakes his head. "Even after everything the other Jasons had said about being turned not truly changing much about a man's original inclinations and self..." 

"You were worried." 

"I can't lose you, amant," Jason says. "That's *why* I brought you home. I had every intention of doing everything in my power to *yank* your soul back from wherever it went... if it went anywhere, at all." 

Treville crosses the room and kisses Jason, soft and lingering and hungry. He doesn't bother to retract his fangs, and Jason pierces his own lip with them. Treville sucks and moans, tasting the *sharp* tang of Jason's power, the rough *flood* of it — 

Treville sucks *harder* — 

Shudders and helplessly holds Jason's head still for himself — 

(You can bite me elsewhere, you know...) 

I'm not actually hungry... 

(Are you quite certain about that...?) And Jason's amusement is pleasure, sweetness, *hunger* — 

But the real hunger is for something — else. 

And Treville backs off a step and turns away — 

"Hmm, I thought so. My blood isn't *quite* human enough to satisfy all of your new cravings." 

And that — is an icy *grip* on his bollocks. He can't help thinking of what that nest had looked like — 

All the *victims* — 

"Amant. *No*. *You* will never be a monster —" 

"But —" 

"You have cravings that can't be slaked with me," Jason says, and grins. "This has always been the case —" 

"Don't *joke* —" 

"Do you savage the boys you bugger when you need a taste of someone a bit younger than six centuries?" 

Treville — blinks. "Are you saying — you're saying I should think about this the same way I think about sex." 

Jason spreads his hands. "We're both hard, amant. And I've *thoroughly* enjoyed feeding you these past few nights." 

"You — I missed that. Too much of that." 

"You were busy with your change." 

"I *hate* missing sex —" 

"You'll make it up to both of us —" 

"You really enjoyed...? I mean. *I* enjoyed —" 

"You were helpless to it, yes? You needed to hold me *still* and *take*." 

Treville *grunts* — "You taste so good, lover." 

"Do I...? Even though I can't *quite* feed you?" 

"You taste —" Treville licks his lips. "Strong. There's a... My tongue always curls and I —" Treville growls low and *focuses* on Jason's long throat — 

"Oh, amant —" 

And that's when they hear the footsteps on the stairs. 

The footsteps *jogging* — 

Jason opens a portal immediately — but Treville has to stop him before he can pull them both through. 

He knows that gait. 

"Amant...?"

"I..."

"All right, you've decided to say at least one goodbye in person. The question is — am *I* going?" 

"No," Treville says, and leans in to kiss his reddened lower lip — 

To suck it — 

He pulls back and *then* retracts his fangs — 

And there are all sorts of inclinations to work against once the scents of sweat and leather and steel and hope and eagerness and worry — 

"Sir? Are you here?"

Porthos. 

The scents of *Porthos*. 

Jason *blinks* — 

Looks at him *hard* — 

But there's no time before — 

"Sir?" 

"Come in," Treville says, not even bothering to cloak himself in The Captain. Not — 

Not anymore. 

He can hear Porthos make a small, worried *sound* — 

And then the door is opening, and he's right there, dressed perfectly in his perfect leathers — and blinking at the dimness. 

He and Jason had only bothered to light two candles.

(You're not very fond of flame, at the moment.) 

Treville represses a snarl and lights more candles *anyway*. 

"Sir... what. What's going on?" 

Well... that's going to take some explaining. 

To *both* Jason and Porthos.

(Oh, not to *me*, amant. *I* can smell him.) 

Oh. Well — 

(You might have mentioned that you had a *son*.) 

Well...

"Sir? Are you all right?" And Porthos moves closer with admirable and instinctive caution. "You look — your colour..."

(Just what sorts of rituals were *done* to you to make you a shifter — oh, thank you very much for *finally* opening that door of your mind — shrieking *harpies*, amant, when were you going to *tell* me about this?) 

"I try not to *think* about —" Treville starts — growls — shakes himself. "Porthos, first things first, I'm *not* 'all right' —" 

"Sir — do we need to get you to a bed? Do you have an ague? I'll get the on-duty surgeon — I think it's Ursos —" 

Treville gestures the all-stop. "Easy, son, easy. It's not an ague. It's nothing one of the surgeons can fix. It's..." Treville frowns. "I have a lot of things to tell you, a lot of things you in *particular* need to know..." He squeezes his eyes shut — 

"Are you in pain, sir —" 

Treville *laughs* painfully. "Oh, son. Only because I ever thought I could do this in a letter," he says, and opens his eyes. And *looks* at Porthos — 

Who blinks — 

And *looks* at Treville, who is very much not wearing his leathers — though he is wearing leathers that fit perfectly, thanks to Jason — 

And then he looks at the saddlebags. 

Porthos swallows. "You're — leaving." 

"Before I'm executed, yes." 

Porthos rears back. "Sir — what — what the bloody hell *happened*? The men have all been wondering where you *disappeared* — and who is *he*?" 

Jason inclines his head. "Jason Blood, at your service —" 

"*Ser* Jason Blood is an immortal mage of my acquaintance. He's my ally and my lover and my brother, and I was working with *him* for the past several days." And Treville waits. 

Porthos blinks — 

And Treville can... feel him. 

Feel him using senses he *hasn't* — not in Treville's presence — 

Treville can't keep himself from smiling. "Oh, son.. how many times did I tell you to use *all* of your abilities *all* the time?" 

"Sir... you. Uh. What the sodding hell — what *are* you?"

Treville raises an eyebrow. "What are your senses telling you?"

"To get *out*. You — but. There's a... connection?"

Treville's heart — clenches. 

And he takes a moment to just — just *accept* the fact that his secrets — all of them — have lived on *Porthos's* sufferance. 

On Porthos's *willful* *blindness* to his own — 

(You didn't know, amant...?) 

I knew he had some power, but... 

(You didn't know he could see you just as well as you could see him. I *see*. What do I always tell *you* about earth-mages and what they *think* they understand about blood-magery?) 

Right. 

"And — are you... talking to Blood? To Ser Jason? I can feel —" 

"You have my apologies, Porthos — if I may call you that," Jason says smoothly, and bows. "We are both at something of a loss." 

Porthos frowns and looks back and forth between them. "I haven't bloody *seen* this kind of thing in *years* —"

"You... took yourself away from it...?" And Jason stands straight and cocks his head to the side. 

"To be a *Musketeer*. I thought — I thought I bloody *had* to —" And Porthos turns back to *him*. "*Sir*, what *happened*? Were you caught? Are you on the run? What — *tell* me things so I can *help* you!" 

Tomorrow, he won't watch Porthos training. 

He won't watch Porthos wrestling with the others — *demolishing* all *comers*. 

He won't watch Porthos making Athos smile despite everything dragging that man down. 

He won't watch Porthos flirting with Aramis —

(Amant...)

Treville sits on the front of his desk — he doesn't let himself slump — and points at the chair — 

"Is there *time* —" 

"There is, son. Sit." 

Porthos sits down at the very edge of the chair — perches, really — and gets as close as he can, even though they can all tell that his senses are telling him that there's danger this close. 

"Where do you want me to begin, son? Why I'm leaving or why you feel a connection?" 

Porthos blinks. "The two aren't related?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "You would've felt a connection before... if you'd used those senses." 

"Meaning *you* felt a connection?" 

Treville swallows and — and. He doesn't reach out. He doesn't do *anything*. But. "I've thought about a lot of different ways to start this conversation, since you walked into my office a year and a half ago and broke the enchantment that had been hiding you from me for twenty years —" 

"What — *what* —" 

"That had hid your *mother* from me until she was dead —" 

"Sir — no — I —" And Porthos stands up and paces, pants, wild-eyed and shocked — 

"Did the witches who helped raise you tell you *how* my Amina-love died, son?"

"Love — you — *wait*. Just bloody *wait*," Porthos says, panting hard and staring. 

Treville winces and does just that, wanting Porthos close again, wanting him in range — 

He smells so *perfect* — 

(That tends to be how such things *work*, amant...) 

I — 

"Sir — *Treville*. Were you my mother's *lover*." 

Treville closes his eyes.

"Shit —" 

"Not... we didn't consummate our affair until after she was pregnant with you, Porthos," Treville says, and gives himself a moment to remember Amina's kisses, Amina's growls, Amina's *bites* — and the way Amina would stroke down and down over her perfect big belly when she wanted to make *sure* Treville knew where to *go*. He opens his eyes. "Our relationship was... complicated. She was my friend, my sister... my wife by blood. By blood *magic*." 

Porthos stares at him with hungry *shock* — 

With need — 

With *grief* — 

Treville stands and starts to close the distance between them — 

"Don't —" 

"Son —" 

"I can't — I — you bloody know who my father *is*, don't you." 

"Was, son. I murdered him." 

Porthos coughs out a groan and *stares* at him. 

(We may need to work on your ability to give shocking news.) 

I — hm. "The man who impregnated your mother — the son of the then-Marquis de Belgard — was the same man who set an amateur assassin after her *and* you —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"And sent my Amina-love into hiding in the first place. Did — did they tell you how she *died*, son?" 

"They told me — there were spells. Dark spells. They told me she died protecting *me*." 

Treville nods. "She did. That much — and more — I found out for myself when *one* of your protectors — Yejide — led me to her body —" 

"What — she — she never bloody said!" 

"She couldn't, son. The enchantment bound your mother to silence about everyone and everything she knew before she ran — except with you. She managed to get just enough information to Yejide *somehow* that the two of us could *eventually* communicate, but it was too little, too late. Any effort on her part to break the enchantment and bring you to me — or me to you — would have led to *your* life being forfeit to the same death-mage who had bound and murdered your mother."

Porthos swallows sickly. "And that was — that was the assassin that Belgard set on her?" 

"Oh — no, son. I apologize for the confusion. The assassin was a madman with just enough magical ability that Amina had trouble dispatching him herself. She was terrified, and went to a death-mage for help, since I and my brothers were out of the country on a mission, and she presumably didn't want to risk harming the witches who had raised her." Treville shudders and growls. "It — still aches to think about. Jason was the one who taught me how to scry, how to use the possessions I still had of Amina's to finally find out exactly how she'd been *snared* by a death-mage." 

And Porthos is staring at him hungrily again — 

His fists are clenched as if he'll attack — but no one in this room. 

He — "How — how did the mage — *who* was the mage?" 

Treville nods. "A man named Guillou. Among other things, he kept shades and other undead creatures slaved to him — and he used them to attack Amina's mind until she agreed to his terms." 

Porthos *snarls* — "What. What did you do to him."

"Removed several pieces of his body while he screamed and begged for mercy... and then imprisoned him in my sword, where he'll continue to scream for as close to a thousand years as I can manage. Jason taught me that trick, too." 

Porthos narrows his eyes — and turns to Jason. "Thank you."

Jason blinks. "There — there is no need —"

"Yes, there is. My mother was everything to me, Ser Jason. She *gave* me everything — and I think *you* can tell that she was a lot more literal about that than some parents are." 

Jason inhales deeply. "She wrapped you in her remaining magics the way other mothers wrap their babes in swaddling." 

Porthos nods. "Yejide, the others. They always said that's why I survived so many of the things my other mates didn't. That's why I *made* it *out*." And Porthos frowns and stares at his own clenched fists — 

They're shaking, just a little. He opens them, and keeps staring until they *stop* shaking. 

"I'm not... I'd like to know *when* you found Guillou. The two of you — it *was* the two of you, right?" And Porthos looks back and forth between them. 

"He was hidden from me in much the same way you were, Porthos, until I met Jason just about two years ago now." 

"Mon amant saved my life... and it was my pleasure to provide a favour in return." 

Treville smiles at Jason. "And a whole lot of teaching." 

"Decreasing the amount of ignorance in the world is rather my vocation, amant." 

Treville hums. "We went after Guillou immediately. And then... I looked for you. I hadn't found you, yet, before you walked into the garrison." 

Porthos grunts. "I just — I felt. I'd been *planning* to wait until I'd saved up enough money to get some fencing lessons in a salon somewhere —" 

Treville makes a face — "We would've had to beat the salon *out* of you!" 

"I *know*. But I *didn't* know that at the time. I just — I always wondered what made me *need* to *rush* so much to enlist. What made it seem like..." Porthos smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "You *have* to know that it seemed like I was throwing my chance *away*?" 

"Oh — son —" 

"And — bloody *that*," Porthos says, and moves close again, standing over Treville and studying him. "You — I can *feel* you, and you feel different than you always did, but now I *have* to admit that you've always felt just right. Just — bloody perfect. Like you belonged — with me." And Porthos blushes like a boy. "Fuck, that sounds —" 

"Precisely correct," Jason says. "Mon amant didn't *tell* me that there was a babe involved in the blood- and death-magery he needed my help with, but there are really a limited number of ways such things can go. He was bound to your mother while you were in her womb. He *is* your father —" 

"Fuck —" 

"— and you're both always going to feel rather *intensely* connected to one another. *Especially* since you were kept apart for so long." 

Porthos frowns again and stares at Treville — 

"Son?" 

"But — you don't. You *don't* feel it —" 

Treville growls and reaches up to cup Porthos's face, to grip him by the hair — 

"Fuck — *sir* —" 

"Don't say that. Don't ever say that." 

"*You* didn't — you let me just run around — why didn't you *say* anything?" 

"I didn't bloody know *how* —" 

"You're managing just fine now that you're bloody *leaving*! And where are you even *going*? Were you even planning to send a *letter*?" 

"*Yes*, I — I couldn't leave without saying goodbye, I —" And Treville knows he has to take his hands *off* Porthos, knows he has to stop *gripping* — 

The best he can do is move his hands to Porthos's shoulders and squeeze hard — 

Porthos grunts in pain — 

Oh — 

(Be *careful*, amant —) 

Fucking *hell* — Treville growls and lets his fangs descend. 

Porthos gasps and *jerks* in his grip — 

"This, son. *This* is why I'm leaving. This is the only *reason* —" 

But Porthos is reaching for him, reaching so slowly, so — 

Porthos is reaching for his *mouth* — 

Swallowing and staring and — 

"Son. Son, don't —" 

"Do they hurt?"

"I — no — they're very sharp —" 

"I've heard about — this. You're a blood-drinker now, right?" And Porthos looks up from Treville's mouth — 

Porthos's eyes are dark and wide and — 

"You were — attacked?"

Porthos's heart is beating too fast. 

Porthos is frightened, but not for *himself* — 

Porthos is — still reaching for Treville's mouth. 

Treville cups his big hand and brings it down to their sides. 

"Sir —" 

"Shh, I — wait. Wait. I can't let you touch." 

"Why not? It's not safe?" Porthos frowns again. "Haven't you *eaten*?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"He has, but not enough," Jason says, and hitches the saddlebag over his shoulder.

"*Jason* —" 

"My blood *cannot* feed him adequately, Porthos — I am no longer *human* enough." 

Treville growls — 

"Do work on fixing his attitude about such things," Jason says, and opens another portal — 

"Jason, don't —" 

"I need to wake your bankers and frighten the life out of them, amant, since *every* god on *every* sphere knows that you won't countenance simply letting *me* take care of you for the foreseeable future." 

Treville grunts in *horror* — 

Jason laughs *meanly* — 

But Porthos moves away from Treville and offers Jason his hand.

"Oh — Porthos." 

"You won't take it?" 

"I can't. I'm under *multiple* curses — I can only be touched by mages like yourself after blood has been shared and... ah. It wouldn't be the *best* plan for you to open a vein in front of your father just yet." 

Porthos blinks — 

"I'm not a bloody *beast* —" 

"No, amant, you're not, but you're *going* to need to *take* the *moment* Porthos bleeds in front of you — unless you take blood from another human first," Jason says, and *looks* at him. 

And looks at him with the weight of experience. 

Treville growls and covers his face — 

And catches himself sniffing at the parts of his hands which touched Porthos's skin — 

He drops his hands.

And Porthos is staring at him wonderingly — but still without any *fear*. Such a brave and beautiful boy...

(He's your son,) Jason says, and turns back to Porthos. "I would happily take your hand under other circumstances, and I do believe we will have other chances in the future, but, for now..." Jason bows again — 

And Porthos bows over his hat. "It's not enough for the man who helped avenge my mother." 

Jason smiles softly. "Do get your father to talk about her as much as possible. He's quite made me fall in love with her." 

Porthos inhales sharply — and swallows and nods. 

"Until we meet again," Jason says, and steps into the portal. 

Treville watches it fade — he has a great number of ways to make rapid escapes now, including into the All-Mother, who was extremely upset with him for getting himself turned before he could be fruitful, but not overly put-out in other ways — and wonders what the hell he's supposed to do now. 

"Right, where are you going to bite me, sir?" 

Oh — shit.


	2. Shut up and take your son, Treville. I mean medicine. I mean -- I don't mean medicine.

"Don't argue about this, sir — you *need* your control. You *always* need your control —" 

"Son —" 

"And you don't have it right now, because you're not properly *fed*." And a part of Porthos is only trying to figure out how to bully the Captain — the *Captain* — into taking his medicine like just another recalcitrant soldier — 

But. 

But he's also not, because there's *that* word. 

Father. 

Treville hadn't really *claimed* it, but he also hadn't really *denied* it. And he's been — 

He's *always* bloody been — 

And there's a difference to that kind of bullying. 

You don't make your family push that hard. 

You don't make your family hurt to take care of you. 

So he gets close, nice and close — 

And he *stares* until Treville is actually looking him in the eye with his pale blue ones — are they paler now? 

And he licks his lips. "Let me take care of you, sir. Please." 

For a moment, Treville only looks hurt — 

Like something Porthos had said had just squeezed his *heart* — 

"Son..." 

"Sir, *let* me —" 

"I'll find a criminal to feed on, son. We both know Paris is crawling with —" 

"But you're hungry *now*. Aren't you?"

And Treville's nostrils flare. Just like that. 

"Yeah, I know you must be —" 

"You smell perfect, son," he says, and his voice is — lower. 

"I — do?"

Treville flares his nostrils again — 

Again — he shudders. 

"I've always had stronger senses. And you've been... incredible." 

Porthos — stares. He distinctly remembers Treville talking to him at the end of long, hard days of *training*, when he's been *covered* in sweat and just *rank* — 

He remembers that *all* of the longer conversations he's had with Treville have come when he's been like that. 

He — "Uh... sir? Have you been... sniffing me?"

Treville laughs, rueful and wry at once. "All the bloody time, son. I bet your mother did, too." 

Porthos *blinks* — and thinks of his mum burying her face in his hair — 

Or against his neck — 

Squeezing him up tight at night — 

Treville grins at him. "Yes...?" 

"Uh... yeah. I thought she was just, you know, affectionate." 

"She was. But she was also sniffing you." 

"Were you — I know she wasn't a shifter." 

"She was. But Guillou was careful to block her, to keep her from *completing* her shift —" 

"Oh, fuck —" 

"It would've let her be *free* of him --" Treville snarls. "We were *both* shifters — I was *made* to be a shifter so that I could protect her and you..." Treville growls. "It's harder to shift, now. Harder to touch that magic. The dog I was bonded with... the dog who is and *isn't* me..." He shakes his head. "He was confused by the changes in us. I couldn't calm him. Happily, the All-Mother could. We have things to get used to, and that's all there is to it." 

Porthos nods and takes Treville's hands in his own — 

"Son —" 

"You have to know — people could tell me that you'd bloody shot the King and pissed all over his body, sir. I'd still assume the man had done something to deserve it." 

"Oh — Porthos." 

"Let me take care of you, and then — then we can figure out how to deal with all of this —" 

Treville — squeezes his hands. "I have to leave, son." 

"I know — you bloody can't handle sunlight or fire, right?" 

"No, I —" 

"I know you can't be a *soldier* — fuck, sir, I'm so *sorry* —" 

"Shh, shh, I won't take that from Jason, and I won't take it from —" 

"Did — was it Jason who asked you to go on the mission with him? To — what *was* the mission?" And Porthos can't let go of Treville's hands, *won't* let go — 

Treville growls — "A nest of undead. There were over two dozen of the things. They were kidnapping humans and — do you know? What some of them do with their victims?" 

Porthos winces. "I can guess, I think. Jason needed your help, and you needed to give it to him." 

"That's right. And — we got separated. One of the bastards chose to contaminate as many of my wounds as possible, even though he knew it would leave him vulnerable to a quicker, more painful death. And... that was it." 

Porthos nods and bites his lip. "Can you still glamour yourself? I mean, I'm going to assume you could before —" 

"Not well. I mean — I couldn't do it well before. It took a great deal of my ready power. It's easier now — oh. Son. No, I can't stay —" 

"You can't be a soldier, sir, and you definitely can't be the *Captain* —" 

"You should stop *calling* me —" 

"D'you want me to?" 

Treville looks at him — hungrily. And there are a lot of different hungers there. 

Porthos doesn't try to separate them all out, just yet. He nods. "There's nothing you can do during the day, sir —" 

"Porthos —" 

"But you and I both know that we could *all* use *everything* you can do at *night*." 

And Treville stares at him like he's grown another *head*, and that other head is beautiful and perfect. 

"Sir. We also both know, I think, that I'll do anything to keep you... but. I'm right about this." 

Treville growls. "What did I do." 

"Mm? What —" 

"What did I do... to make you think this *well* of me?" 

Porthos growls. "You were bloody *yourself*, sir —" 

"No, I —" 

"You — you take *care* of us. Of *all* of us —" 

"That's just —" 

"That's not 'just' *anything*, sir! That's *everything*, and you're — you're so bloody hard, and so strong, and so brave, and you've *seen* everything, and *done* everything, and it hasn't made you cold or cruel or — or *old*. It's just made you *smarter* —"

"You know, son..." 

"What... what?" 

And Treville smiles *softly*. *Warmly*. 

"What is it?" 

"You might as well be talking about yourself." 

Porthos blushes *hard* — "Sir —" 

Treville laughs — and pulls Porthos in for a hug. "I've wanted to do this... for a very long time." 

Porthos squeezes *tight* — 

"Oh, son..." Treville growls. "You feel..." He growls more and pushes *back* — 

"Sir?" 

"I can't — I was going to bite you —" 

"Do it!" 

"*Son* —" 

"I *want* you to. I — you *have* to know how incredible it would be for me to give you something you *need*, sir!" 

Treville pants and looks down — 

Looks at Porthos's *throat* — "*Yes*, sir," Porthos says, opening his tunic at speed and spreading it wide — 

And watching Treville — stare. 

Right at his pulse-point. 

Part of him wants to ask if he stares at Jason that way, but it can't be — it has to be different. 

He'd *started* by introducing Jason as his lover — and hadn't Porthos always wondered about Treville and men? Hadn't it always seemed so *plausible*?

So —

It has to be different, the way he stares when he's hungry for Jason's blood. There has to be... more, or different, or — 

Or something that makes it *completely* sexual when *Jason* takes Treville's fingers and places them against his pulse — 

As opposed to just a *bit* sexual — 

"Son..." 

Or maybe more than a bit, considering *how* low and rough Treville's voice is, how — 

But Porthos doesn't have to respond to it that way, doesn't have to — 

"Son. Son, tell me you're *sure*." 

"I'm sure!" 

Treville licks his lips and *presses* on Porthos's pulse-point — "I'm. So hungry for you —" 

"Please — please bite, sir —" 

"Son. You're my son. You're my son, and I — I can't leave you. I can't ever leave you —" 

"*Fuck* — please *don't* leave —" 

"Please don't run from me — after —" 

"I —" But Porthos hears himself shout — 

Feels himself *rocking* on his feet — 

Treville is there, right there, so fast, holding him so *tightly*, growling against his *skin* — 

"Sir —" 

"Don't *run*," he says, and *bites* — 

Bites down so — 

His teeth feel sleek-hot-deep-DEEP — 

Porthos gasps — 

Grunts and gasps *more* — 

He can feel this growl in his *spine* — 

He can feel himself *leaking* *around* Treville's teeth — and then Treville *sucks*, and everything is hot, everything is *pulling*, everything is — 

Is — 

He's open, all the way *open*, and Treville is lapping and sucking and — 

And there are drums in his head, pounding drums — 

He's gasping again — 

The pull is all through him — 

He can't — 

He feels like he's spilling everything he *is*, and he's so hard, so hungry and *hard*, and he's so *hot*, and he knows he's bucking, gasping, *whining* — 

The drums are so *loud* — 

He needs to be *touched* more — 

He needs Treville — 

He needs Treville to never bloody *stop* — 

(My boy...) 

And that's his voice, his voice, so hungry and low, so hungry and *pleased*, so hungry and all *through* him — 

(I've starved for you for a generation...) 

*Please*!

(It's... it's almost over, son —) 

No — no don't stop —

(Shh, I have to —) 

Please please *please* — 

(I won't stop. I won't stop touching you...) 

And that doesn't seem like *enough*, not with those fangs slipping out — 

Not with those lips kissing his throat so softly, so *gently* — 

He knows what they can *do* — 

He knows what he can *have* — 

The drum is his pounding *heart*, and it won't *stop*, not now that Treville's colour is that much better, not now that he's obviously calmer, steadier — but still hungry. 

And looking directly into Porthos's eyes. He — 

"That was..." Porthos grins. "That was *amazing*." 

Treville narrows his eyes. "You taste... just as perfect as you should. But —" 

"No *buts*. *You* said you wouldn't stop touching me. Did you mean that?" 

Treville flushes. "Son. *Son*. Think about what you're asking for for just a *moment* —" 

"I don't *need* to —" 

"*Son* —" 

"Nothing has ever felt that *right* —" 

Treville growls — 

"And I *know* it felt right to you, too. I know —" Porthos grins wider and shakes his head. "What do you like, eh? I'll *do* it." 

And Treville only stares at him for a long moment, another *wondering* moment —

"Sir? What *is* it —" 

"I want you to know me. I want you to know me well enough that you know the *only* thing stopping me right now is worry about how you'll feel tomorrow." 

Porthos grunts — and blushes. "*Fuck*, sir —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"I want you to know *me* well enough to know that tomorrow I'm going to feel *lonely* because you won't be in my *bed* — *mm* —" 

And it's a *weird* kiss, because it tastes *exactly* like Porthos's blood — and lots of it — but it's also a kiss that comes with one of Treville's hands in Porthos's hair and the other opening his *trousers*, so Porthos is *quite* happy with it, overall. 

He sucks Treville's tongue and helps with the trousers — 

The breeches — 

*Offers* his cock to Treville — but he goes right for the bollocks. 

Fucks Porthos's *mouth* and *massages* Porthos's bollocks and Porthos can't do anything but *groan* into his mouth and buck — 

Treville pulls out of the kiss — "Do you like that? That touch?" 

"Fuck, yes, sir. A little harder is good — fuck — oh, *fuck* —" 

"Like that, son?" 

"Oh, that's so *good* —" 

"I hate the smell of soap on you, but I've *vastly* enjoyed wandering into the barracks while you've been getting clean, son..." 

"*Shit*, that's dirty!" 

Treville laughs evilly. "Measuring the *heft* of your bollocks in my mind..." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Wondering how they'd feel on my tongue..." 

"Oh my *God*, sir —" 

"Watch your mouth with those religious oaths, son. You should know the Christian god isn't *ours*." 

"What — *shit*." 

And Treville laughs even *harder* — and *squeezes* —

"UNH —" 

"Do you like that?" 

"*Yes*, sir!" 

"Do you want me to do it again...?" 

"I'd like to hold on to something, but *yes* —" 

"Hold on to me, son. Hold me *tight*," Treville says, and Porthos follows *orders*, gripping Treville's shoulders — 

"Like — like this, sir?" 

"Perfect," Treville says, and squeezes *viciously* — 

Porthos groans and *shakes* — 

*Sweats* — 

"Fuck, sir, *fuck* —" 

And Treville leans in and *laps* the sweat from Porthos's shoulder and throat. "Such a delicious boy. So..." Treville growls. "I've *bitten* my own hands after touching your skin, son —" 

"*Sir* —" 

"Sucked and licked and —" Treville growls more. "I can't wait. You're not leaking enough." 

"I'm sorry!" 

"Shh. You'll do better for me. I know you will." 

"I — I *will* — oh, *fuck*, sir!"

"I've never watched you toss yourself off, son," Treville says, and starts stroking Porthos's cock *immediately* — 

"Nuh-no?" 

"Never had the *opportunity*. Though that's not to say you haven't nearly had a dog wander into your tent at... inopportune moments..." 

Porthos *chokes* on a moan — 

"Really. Well. I think the dog I shift into these days is rather more nightmarish than he used to be, but perhaps we'll revisit that thought anyway," Treville says, and nuzzles behind Porthos's ear. "You don't know how good you *smell*." 

"I — I *always* want to be good for you!" 

"Then tell me how to stroke you. Tell me *exactly* how to do it." 

Porthos groans and *pumps* into Treville's fist — 

Treville *squeezes* — 

"*Yes*! Do — do that — I mean — please harder, please just — oh, fuck, sir, fuck —" 

"You like it rough." 

"From — from —" 

"From...?" 

"From some people!" 

"From *me*." 

"Yes, sir!" And Porthos drops his head to Treville's shoulder and pants, *whines*, *fucks* into that brutal fist — 

"You don't like it rough all the time..." 

"No, sir —" 

"Would you like it rough from your Aramis...?" 

"UNH — I — I — *fuck* —" 

Treville *snickers* — 

Like a *boy* — 

"You should probably consider yourself warned that I'm a bastard, son."

"*Yes*, sir —" 

"But I'm the bastard who's smelled lust, need, love, and absolute, abject *hunger* on your Aramis many, many times when he's been with you... or watching you walk away." 

Porthos grunts and *spasms*, staring at *nothing* — 

"A good Captain of the King's Musketeers couldn't really do anything with that information in good conscience. But a good *father*... well." 

Porthos swallows and — 

And looks *up* into Treville's eyes — 

Treville's soft and loving and — "Daddy..."

*Treville* grunts and his fangs *drop*, just like that. "Son — fuck — don't —" 

"I think I see. How -- how you've starved for me, I mean." 

Treville growls and *squeezes* him again — 

Porthos *groans* — and bares his throat — 

"*Son* —" 

"Do it, Daddy. Do it and make me spend. I —" 

And this time the bite is in the exact same place as before — 

This time it feels like Treville's *growl* is opening him as much as his teeth are — 

And he never stops *working* Porthos with his hand — 

And, when the *pull* comes, Porthos's knees finally just *buckle* — but Treville wraps his other arm around him and holds him still, holds him steady, keeps him in place for his hand and his *mouth* — 

His hot mouth, sucking mouth — 

His hard and perfect *hand* — 

And Porthos feels drunk on this, on everything, on *Treville*. Porthos feels like he's losing his *mind* to the heat of this, to the rough-suckling pleasure at his throat and the rougher pleasure at his cock. 

He feels like — 

He *knows* he'll give everything just to *keep* this, just to have as much of this as *possible* — 

The sweep of that *tongue* — 

His cock keeps *jerking* in Treville's *fist*, and it all feels so slow, so languid, so — 

It feels like every suck is taking a thousand years, like he's pouring out his lifeblood in great *floods*, but — 

He knows Treville wouldn't let him. 

He knows his *Daddy* wouldn't let him. 

He can be weak for this. He can give up everything and just groan and spasm and give *more* — 

He can just *take* this — 

(That's right, son...) 

Daddy — 

(Take everything I give you...) 

Daddy, *please* — 

(You know I'll give you everything I *have*...) 

And Porthos is lost to images of being bent over and fucked, bent over and *used* by his Daddy while he buries his teeth *deep* — 

And Daddy is growling again, growling all through him, tossing him off so hard and fast and *hot* — 

So *hot* — 

(*Spend*.) 

And Porthos can't gasp, can't sob, can't — 

Porthos can't do anything but open his mouth in a soundless *cry* as his cock jerks and spills and *spills*. 

As his body follows *orders*, burning up and tingling and just — 

Just *lost* — 

(I'll never let you be lost *again*.) 

Porthos grunts and spills *more*, slumping over — 

(There's my good boy....) 

Daddy...

(Shh, it's all right. Let me just close these wounds properly...) 

Porthos moans and nods and is otherwise still in his Daddy's arms. He feels limp and spent and *helpless*, and there's shame for that, but — 

(Shh... I've got you.) 

Yes, Daddy...

And Daddy is lapping at him, kissing him and petting him and loving him, moving him — 

Down to the floor — 

And, eventually, they're sitting back against the desk with Porthos half-slumped between Daddy's legs, with Daddy's arms around him, and Daddy's face tucked in behind his ear. 

It feels... amazing. 

"I'm glad. I've wanted this," Daddy says, and nips Porthos's ear. 

"Fuck. I wish you'd taken it, Daddy." 

"And you? Should I have taken you?" 

Porthos closes his eyes and — bares his throat again. 

And Daddy — rumbles. Not growls. "Noted, son." 

"So um... what are we going to do about your cock?" 

"Put it in gaol for the next four decades," Daddy says, and *licks* behind Porthos's ear — 

Porthos snorts. "Daddy —" 

"I can wait. And I'd prefer to." 

"Really?"

Daddy rumbles again. "You satisfied me very, very much when you fed me, son. Which is not to say I don't *want* more — I absolutely do —" 

"It's not... driving you mad." 

"Not like this. Not with you in my arms." 

Porthos laughs ruefully. 

"Mm? What is it?" 

"My bed is going to feel *frigid* and *massive* tomorrow." 

Daddy makes a hurt sound and holds him tighter. "You were never meant to be *alone*, son —" 

"Neither were *you*. But — Ser Jason takes care of you? He's... warm?" 

"He does and he is. He's spent so much time alone that he forgets how to *not* be alone sometimes... but he's good at being reminded. Now. Shall we work on a plan to put your Aramis in your bed for good and all?" 

"Oh — fuck. *Daddy*."

"That sounded like a yes to me —" 

"You're going to stay. Right? You're going to — to be somewhere I can *touch* you." 

Daddy takes a shuddering breath and kisses the space behind Porthos's ear again. "My big, sweet boy. I'll go if it will save your life. I... I don't know if there's anything else that could make me leave and *keep* me away."

"I don't want there to be *anything* that would make you —" 

"Porthos." 

Porthos lets his teeth click shut on that. Just -- lets them. "Yes, Daddy." 

"Thank you," Daddy says, and kisses him again. "I'm going to get rooms utterly unconnected to the de Treville name, and I'm *going* to convince Jason to stay with me *in* them, and... we'll see what we'll see." 

And Porthos — breathes. 

Just — easier and better than he has since the word had come down that the Captain had disappeared. 

"Thank you, Daddy."

Daddy grins against his ear. "Now about your empty bed..."


	3. In which everyone is super responsible, as per usual. *nods*

When Treville woke up at sundown tonight, he wasn't expecting his night to include being sucked off by his *son*. 

Sucked off *expertly* and *lovingly* and —

And he's working his own head — 

Swallowing every time — 

Humming and *slurping* and — 

And Treville is *panting*, because it's good, because it's perfect, because Porthos smells like pleasure, like desire, like — 

Treville wasn't expecting *anything* with his son, because he'd had a thoroughly-thought-out plan to *avoid* thinking about his son until — 

Until — 

(You know better now, Daddy.) 

And that — 

The sound of him in his *mind* — 

The sound of him after so long without — 

(I'll never bloody shut *up*,) Porthos says, pausing to nibble on the head of Treville's cock — 

He likes that even more than he *used* to — 

(I'll do it all the bloody time, Daddy —) 

"*Fuck*, I always want you, I always want your *voice* —" 

(Daddy —) 

Treville tugs him off by the hair, tugs him *back* -- 

Porthos groans — 

There's a thread of spit connecting his soft, pink lips to the head of Treville's cock — 

There — 

And Treville's cock already misses his hot mouth, his soft mouth, his wet and hot and — 

"Daddy, please, please let me —" 

"I want all of you!" 

And for a moment, Porthos is only staring at him, hungry and curious — and then he wipes his mouth with his hand and licks his lips. "It's not enough, Daddy? You need... why don't you show me what you need, eh? You know I'll do it —" 

Treville winces. "I do know. I — I want everything at once. The last time I was like this, I kept stopping Reynard until he was ready to *stab* me," he says, laughing ruefully and scrubbing his face with his hands. 

"Reynard? Was he one of us?" 

"Oh, yes. My brother. My heart. My life," Treville says, grinning and dropping his hands again. "He was a beautiful madman, and I miss him like —" He stops and shakes his head. 

Porthos licks his lips again, eyes wide and eager. "A limb?" 

"It's not enough. It's not — and you didn't sign on for my memories —" 

"I want them! I want all of them, Daddy. You know I always tried to wheedle stories out of you *before*." 

And — he had. He had. Treville pants. "My son."

Porthos blushes — and grins. "Yours. I mean, you went and killed the other bloke, so —" 

"He was *worthless* —" 

Porthos snickers. "*You* said he was a bloody *marquis*. How did you not get *caught*?" 

Treville — blushes a bit. "I had help." 

"Oh, *did* you? From who? Reynard? Someone else?" 

Treville smiles and remembers — 

("Treville." 

"Sir." 

"Is there a *reason* why you're covered in blood and offal?"

"There usually is, sir." 

"But right this moment." 

"Well..." 

"Do elaborate. At your leisure." 

"Sir. You were aware of my suspicions about Amina's disappearance?" 

"I most assuredly — oh." 

"Sir." 

"*Where* did you leave Belgard's remains?" 

"I did what I did in the woods on the Belgard properties, sir —" 

"You took the valuables?" 

"Of *course*, sir —" 

"Hmm.")

And Laurent had leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers. 

("As it happens, the Belgard family has had terrible trouble with..." Laurent frowns lightly... but only for a moment. "It's quite well known that Belgard was not the most *deft* of... hunters." 

"Very true, sir --" 

"It's been bruited about in any number of circles that he's been known to take... foolish risks with his life and health while in the woods, never using proper precautions around the most dangerous beasts..."

"Has it, sir?" 

"It has, indeed. If I have told you once, I have told you countless times: One must always pay as much attention to gossip as one pays to the most rarefied of military intelligence.")

Treville couldn't help but smile. ("You never do know when those things will be the same..." 

"As you say. Get yourself clean, Treville, and get back to training. This is no longer your concern... as opposed to mine, and Henri's. We hunt together quite often, as you know." 

"I'll keep that duly in mind, sir. Thank you, sir.")

Laurent had inclined his head. ("And Treville...?"

"Yes, sir?") 

And Laurent's eyes had glittered and *shone* as he'd looked Treville over one last time. 

("Good work.") 

And Treville hums and lets the memory fade as he focuses on a somewhat *slack*-jawed Porthos — 

He strokes his face — 

He laughs softly. "It can be a *good* idea to communicate with your commanding officer, son —" 

"But — wait —" 

"Mm?" 

"Wasn't that Athos's *father*?" 

Treville laughs *hard*. "Yes, it was. And *he* was my brother, too, and he..." Treville shakes his head. "I loved him madly." 

"I love him, too!" 

"*Good*!" And they laugh together, sweet and just a little too loud. 

"So did he clean up *all* your messes?" 

"Just the ones that would've gotten me hanged or exiled or beheaded or the like," Treville says, and smiles fondly. "He did let me work off my punishment details like a man." 

Porthos nods. "You wouldn't have loved him as much if he hadn't," he says, with absolute assurance. 

Treville nods anyway, and smiles with the pride that feels like it will burst out of him — 

"Daddy...?" 

"You do know me." 

"Better by the *moment*, Daddy." 

"I want you to know — everything. Just everything." 

Porthos stares at him hungrily for a long moment — and then stares at his cock. 

Treville laughs. "Yes, absolutely, I won't stop you. I *can't* stop you —" 

"You really *can*, Daddy. I mean, if you want something *else* —" 

"I want everything, like I said. Including just to sit here talking to you until the sun rises..." And Treville looks to the window helplessly. The sky isn't lightening, yet, but he can still feel the sun's approach.

Porthos growls. "You'll give me other *nights*," he says, bending down and swallowing Treville *whole* — 

"*Fuck*, son —" 

(Tell me yes!) 

Treville grips Porthos by the hair and holds him *still* — 

(Oh —) 

Holds him right — there....

Porthos swallows and swallows and swallows, obviously helplessly — 

Treville growls — 

Porthos *stops* swallowing and holds himself *still*, utterly *still* — 

"Oh, son... son... is this what you want?" 

(I — I want everything, too!) 

"But do you like it when your Daddy is hard on you?" 

Porthos groans in his chest and *shakes* — 

"Mm? Do you like it when I make you take me?"

(Daddy —) 

"When I make you *choke* on me?"

(*Fuck*, Daddy, you're making me so *hard* again!) 

Treville growls. "Maybe you shouldn't worry about how to suck me, son." 

(N-no?) 

"Maybe you should just let your Daddy show you how..." 

(Oh fuck —) 

"Shh," Treville says, lifting Porthos's head. "Breathe." 

Porthos gasps — 

And gasps — 

Slurs out something fervent and incomprehensible — and starts to breathe. 

Hot and cool on the head of Treville's cock — 

Hot and cool and — 

"There's my boy. Just keep that up for a little bit longer, son. Just —" Treville growls again. "You're not going to get too many more chances." 

(Please, *yes*, Daddy —) 

"You like that, son? You like it *that* hard?" 

(From you!) 

"Then close your mouth right up and *suck* — *nnh*. You. You're so good, you're so —" Treville groans. "Reynard would say I was torturing him when I only let him have this much of my cock. How do you feel about it? Hm?" 

(I love the feel of you in my *mouth*, Daddy, I love being able to *work* you — just — may I nibble again?) 

"Do it. Do it, because I bloody love it, I love you, I want it — *oh*. I love your *teeth*. Go on, do it a little harder —" And Treville snarls and *grips* Porthos's hair — 

(*Daddy* —) 

"Is it too *hard*." 

(No, Daddy, please don't stop —) 

"You want to *feel* me tomorrow —" 

(I want to feel you every *day*!) 

Treville growls and *hauls* Porthos down and down and — 

(Fuck fuck yes PLEASE —) 

"The Captain couldn't show up to his men's rooms in the middle of the night with a rock-hard cock..." 

(I —) 

"I *can*."

(Fuck, sir, yes, please, *please* —) 

"You want that, son? You want me in your home? You want me prowling through *your* space...?" 

(Everything everything please —) 

"You want me to make you mine there, too?" 

(*Everywhere*!) 

Treville growls and *bucks* up into that tight mouth, that tighter *throat* — 

Porthos groans and sucks and slurps and — takes him. 

Takes everything — 

(Please please please let me be good for you —) 

"Oh, son... you can't be anything but. You can't —" And Treville growls and pulls Porthos back — "*Gasp*." 

Porthos obeys *immediately* — 

"*Good* boy," Treville says and thrusts *up* while he pulls Porthos *down* — 

Has him — 

Has his *boy* — 

And the rhythm is rudimentary, sweet, *perfect* — for him.

The rhythm is — 

He wants to go *easy* on his boy, but he *can't*. He needs it fast, he needs it hard, he needs it — 

(Daddy Daddy so good, you're so —) 

But Porthos doesn't finish that thought, just moans in their minds and keeps *giving* himself, keeps offering his sweet *body* — 

And Treville can't stop fucking him, can't stop imagining having him in every possible *way* — 

He's been given lovers who have offered him everything and *meant* it, he's *had* that, he has it with *Jason* — 

And now he has it again, with his beautiful son, and he's never deserved it, never earned it, never earned something so — 

(Daddy, *please*!) 

But he can't think that way, not right now, not like — 

This is his, and he has to earn it right *now*, has to be right for it, has to be *strong* enough for it, and he can caress his Porthos with the hand he's not gripping his hair with — 

He can pet those swollen-plush lips — 

"I'll take care of you, son," he says, and it's almost groaned, almost *crooned* — 

His dog is waking up, ready to run, ready to hunt, ready to pin and *take* — 

"I'll always take *care* of you!" And he's forcing that knowledge into Porthos a little, pushing with his power — 

Porthos is so *open* to him — 

Porthos is moaning constantly, loose and ready, open and *ready* — for orders and everything else, and every sound is being chopped to pieces by Treville's rough fuck, by Treville's *needy* — 

Ah, fuck, he *can't* — 

He *yanks* Porthos in against him and grinds in, *in*, *in* — 

Stays *deep* in that *throat* while Porthos's mind fills with heat and hungry pleasure, hungry *shock* to be treated that *harshly* by his Daddy — 

It's what he *needs* — 

It's what they both *need*, and Treville will give it to them, take it from — 

And he's snarling now, shift crawling and roiling under his skin, shift *trying* to find purchase — 

These days, he has to *will* himself to change in order for it to happen, but that doesn't mean his body doesn't want to — 

That doesn't mean the dog doesn't feel his pup. 

And Treville can feel Porthos's questions for that, Porthos's need for that, but he can't stop to answer, can't do anything but fuck his boy, take him hard, take him *harder* — 

And Porthos goes even more loose, goes even more *slack* everywhere but his tight-sucking mouth, everywhere — 

Oh, son — 

Oh, my perfect son — 

(I'm *yours*!) 

Yes. You. *Are*, Treville says, rolling them over, straddling Porthos's face and — 

And shoving in — 

Porthos's eyes roll back — 

He's so flushed — 

He's so open and so *flushed* — 

(Love you, Daddy...) 

And Treville grunts and *bucks* — 

Can't — 

He can't bloody *see* — 

And he's fucking his son hard, hard, so — 

He's fucking his son *through* his own spend, working his cock deep into his son's messy-filled mouth and *howling* — 

He can't stop — 

He can't *stop* — until he slumps *over*, and Porthos catches him in his strong, perfect hands. 

So — 

(Daddy...) 

"Oh, son — oh — *fuck*, son, I've loved you since the day you were born," Treville says, panting and *gasping* as his cock spasms its last. 

Porthos grunts and *bucks* under him — 

Treville groans — "That's not true," he says, and laughs. "I loved you in Amina's womb. You kicked her something terrible, but you always let me soothe you, you always — oh, fuck, I've *missed* you!" And he's shouting at his son, he's — 

He's cupping Porthos's face and staring — 

Into his black, black eyes.

Into his bright, shining — 

Hungry — 

Oh. 

(Oh, did you *remember* some of your lessons about blood-magery, amant?) 

Shit — 

(Let's *see*. You drained him of *some* of his blood —) 

Oh fuck — 

(And then you spent down his eager throat —) 

Oh *fuck* — and Treville scrambles to his feet — 

"Daddy...? What's wrong?" 

Treville whines and reaches down to take Porthos's hand, to haul him up, to pull him close and sniff, lick, *examine* — 

"Fuck, that feels good, but why are you worried?"

"Son..."

(Mind you, this was all far more entertaining to watch than your bankers pissing themselves —) 

*Jason*. 

(You're wondering why I didn't stop you, amant...?) 

Bloody *yes*!

(Because you *would've* stopped. And *that* would not have been what you actually wanted —) 

I — 

"I... I feel sort of... strange..." 

(And I daresay the same can be said for your son.)

Treville growls and hugs Porthos *tight* — 

Porthos grunts — and hugs him back just as tightly. "I feel stronger. And kind of... kind of sick at the same time? Is there something in your spend I should — oh." 

Treville shudders hard. "I didn't think." 

"Daddy..." 

"I didn't — oh, son, I'm so *fucking* —"

"Wait," Porthos says, and pushes back, eyes wide and body starting to shake with the tremors Treville remembers *viscerally* — 

"Son —" 

"*Wait*. Are you — are you sorry for not thinking or are you sorry for making me more *yours*."

Treville grunts. 

(See?) 

I — 

"Daddy..." Porthos shakes his head. "You have to know that it's the brotherhood that means more to me than anything else about this life. The *family* —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"And you have to know I'll bloody *take* it for myself no matter *what* — fuck, I'm shaking so hard —" 

"Let me — let me take care —" 

"I *will*, but you have to listen first. You —" Porthos licks his lips — and smiles. "I'm your son. I'm *yours*. And you just — you took away the last little wall between us —" 

"It wasn't *little* —" 

"It feels that way, Daddy. It feels like I can..." And he lifts his shaking hand. "Crush it in my fist. Eh? Or like we can do it together. Like we can do *anything* together."

Treville — pants. And flares his nostrils, because the scents of Porthos — 

Of his *son* — 

His beautiful... 

"I smell even better to you now, don't I." 

"*Yes* —" 

Porthos growls a laugh. "*Good*. I'm *yours*. So sodding stuff your apologies — except for the one about not planning to do this all *along*. I'll take that one." 

And that's everything Treville can take, everything — 

He *yanks* Porthos down into a kiss — 

He's shaky enough that they're both *staggering* — 

But Treville can hold him, *hold* him and *keep* him — 

Taste the remnants of his bloody spend in Porthos's mouth and *not* do a very good job of licking it out — it's already done its job, but Treville wants it to stay there, stay *right* there, leave its mark for as long as *possible* — 

Porthos grunts and shudders in his arms, nuzzles in, bites at Treville's lips with his still-dull teeth in helpless instinct — 

"Shh, shh, it's all right, son...." 

"Daddy, I — I need — feel like 'm going to fall down soon, or — I don't know —" 

Treville frowns. This is moving much faster than it had in him — 

And Jason walks out of a smudge on the air. "This is because you weren't *actually* bitten first, amant — as opposed to having contaminated wounds."

"Right. We should —" 

"We are," Jason says, and tugs Porthos away from him on a cushion of shadows that — gently — binds him in place — 

"Daddy — Ser Jason — I — I can walk —" 

"You truly can't," Jason says, and smiles gently down at Porthos. "Not where we're going, anyway." 

"But —" 

"*Just* temporarily, son. We still have to rent rooms." 

"Something suitably spacious where I can keep all my bibs and bobs — and keep all my bibs and bobs from murdering the neighbours."

"Uh." 

Treville snickers. "Worry about that later, son. Your body is busy dying — and being reborn into something else. That takes a lot of energy." 

"I —" 

"*Do* listen to your father, Porthos. He wants only the best for you, as do I."

And even through his shakes, even through his *wracking* shudders, Porthos gives Jason a *shrewd* look for that — 

A *measuring* look — 

"Why is that, Ser Jason?" 

"Hmm. I don't suppose I could get you to call me simply by my name...? But. The glib answer is that your father has given me rather a taste for Musketeers. The honest answer is that I've been paying attention to every moment of your conversation with your father, and you are everything he *should* love. And the *painfully* honest answer is that I've paid attention to every moment of your conversation with your father, and I... well." And Jason smiles ruefully. "You are everything *I* learned to love — and devote myself to — as a young man. I have not unlearned those lessons in six hundred years, and have no *immediate* plans to do so." 

Porthos blushes deeply. "You — you're *exactly* who my Daddy should have at his side." 

Jason smiles. "Am I...?" 

"He needs passion and — and I just — and I can't think — where —" 

"Shh, Porthos, rest," Jason says, and does a pass over his face — 

Porthos slumps and begins to breathe frighteningly shallowly — 

Jason looks at him. "You know the breathing will stop, soon enough, amant." 

"I — yes. I promise to make an arse of myself." 

Jason grins at him. "I promise I did the same when it was your turn. Shall we?" 

"Let's."


	4. Definitely let's let Aramis drive this car.

The *secret* of their location had lasted a whole week — which is frankly a lot better than Porthos had expected, considering the fact that they had Athos and Aramis to deal with, *and* they weren't even taking rooms somewhere like the Court — 

("No, Porthos." 

"It'll keep you good and anonymous, Daddy —" 

"I have enough infections *and* horrible, blood-soaked memories, son.") 

So, no. 

A week was about the best they could hope for. 

Right now, Porthos is watching Aramis watch their building from the roof. Aramis is cloaked and hooded, tucked deep in a nice little alley. 

Porthos can still smell him. 

Porthos — 

Porthos can smell him in his dreams, sometimes. 

(When are you planning to do something about that, son?) 

I have to give him time to *adjust* — 

(Like I had to give you time?) 

Porthos blinks — 

And blinks — 

And jumps down from the roof into the alley beside their building to the sound of Daddy's *raucous* laughter in his mind — 

And, across the way, Aramis is straining to see what had made the noise. The night is too moonless for *him* to see much of anything in this murk. 

(Invite him up, son. It's nasty out there.) 

Daddy — 

(Foggy and — ah...) 

(He could catch his death,) Jason says, low and amused and — 

Right. 

*Right* — 

(We *won't* be interrupting the two of you,) Jason says — 

(Unless he has questions he needs answered then and there, and then you can ask him if he's *sure* — ah hell, son, you just need to have your *brothers*.) 

And, abruptly, he's hit with a *powerful* memory of his mum gently and *firmly* urging him away from her skirts and toward a little girl who'd been playing alone in the dirt in front of their tenement — 

("Go on, sweet boy, her mama tells me she likes stories *just* as much as *you* do." 

"Oh, but — does she KNOW any?") 

And his mum had nodded with that *laughing* light in her eyes — 

("*Different* ones than the ones *I* know.") 

And Porthos had run to play with the little girl, whose name wasn't Flea, yet, but would be, and — 

And this isn't like that. 

Except for how it absolutely is. 

(I believe I'm horrified,) Jason says with honest *wonder* in his voice —

*Daddy* is laughing again. *Hard*. (Thank you *very* much for that memory, son.) 

You're bloody *welcome*, Porthos says, and moves out of the shadows and into Aramis's line of sight with as few sudden movements as possible. You never want to *spook* Aramis — 

He still *almost* throws a blade — Porthos catches his hand. 

"Easy, mate. It's just me." 

"*Porthos*. I did not even *hear* you —" 

"The fog makes sound weird, you know —" 

"We *both* know that is not why," Aramis says, and *looks* at him with a blend of triumph and generalized *upset* in his eyes. 

Porthos had told him and Athos a *little* about why he was leaving, but — not enough. 

(Bad form, son.) 

Like you can talk! 

(I didn't say I could, I just said it was bad form.) 

Porthos represses a laugh as best as he *can* — 

"And you are *laughing* at me? I —" 

"*No*, Aramis, I — I was laughing at something — Treville said. Something — fuck. Would you come up?" 

"Now that I have tracked you here, you mean? And why didn't you simply *tell* us where you were *going*?" 

"*I* told — Treville that if we were going to stay in Paris proper that we might as well tell you, since you'd find us anyway —" 

(I'm not always — or often — as intelligent as I should be, son.) 

"I —" Porthos shakes himself — 

"What? What is it? And why do you always *hesitate* before you say Treville's name now? What do you *wish* to call him?" 

Porthos closes his eyes for a moment — and smiles ruefully. Of course Daddy doesn't have anything to say *now*. 

(Oh, I have all sorts of things I *could* say. I'm just more interested in seeing what *you* say, son.) 

You maybe spend too *much* time with Jason? Maybe? 

(Bite your tongue, Porthos.) 

Right — 

"*Porthos* —" 

"*Aramis* — I. Fuck. You have a *good* idea of what I am now, right? Of what me *and* — Treville are?" 

Aramis frowns. "You showed me your *teeth*, your strength, your speed — the rest I could discern from lore I had studied in seminary and other *places*. But what —" 

"*Because* of that — and for a few other reasons — Treville and I can... speak silently. At a distance. In each other's *minds*." 

Aramis's jaw drops — for a moment. "You must tell me everything *about* this!" 

"Of course, but —" 

"And what do you wish to *call* him?" 

"Daddy."

"I. What." And Aramis is only staring at him, utterly still and *focused*.

Porthos blushes. "There are — even before he *turned* me into *this* —" 

"He was — he was...? Porthos, I have *deduced* that Treville is your lover, but —" 

"He's also my father. My — my father by blood-*magic*."

"What are you — what do you — what does that *mean*?" 

"Please come upstairs?" 

Aramis grips him by his shirt with both hands — "*Talk* to me!" 

Porthos winces and covers Aramis's hands with his own. "Right, all right. It means that he knew my mum, that he and my mum were really *close*. Lovers for a little while, after my mum was pregnant with me — and even closer than that in some ways —" 

"What is closer — no, keep *talking* —" 

"They were brother and sister, and they were magically bound when she was pregnant with me. He was supposed to be her protector, and mine, too. It didn't work. My blood-father hired an assassin to kill us, and the assassin scared my mum badly enough that *she* went to a crooked death-mage. And he — attacked her." Porthos shakes his head. Jason had advised against it, but he'd had to see what his Daddy had seen, had to see *Guillou*, and what he'd done to his mum. 

"Porthos...?" 

"Daddy's lover Jason — he's another mage. A powerful one. He can scry things — have you heard that term?" 

"I have, but I have never seen —" 

"He was able to scry for Daddy. What had happened to my mum with Guillou. The death-mage. He also showed me." 

"Oh... Porthos..." And Aramis steps closer, strokes him, reaches up to squeeze Porthos's shoulders — 

"I'm sorry, I — what did you want to know? I'm still a little..." 

"My friend, I need to know everything, *all* things, but — are you all *right*? You... you have seen too much."

"I *had* to see it, Aramis —" 

"No, no, I understand, I would need to see the same, but — it is still too much," he says, and smiles ruefully, and *rubs* Porthos's shoulders. "Perhaps my friend could give himself a *moment* —" 

Porthos growls. "You always take care of me." 

"No. I always *try* to take care of you —" 

"Let me take you *inside* —"

"Why — did you *know* that he was your father in all but name when you began making love? Oh. I did not expect that question to *fall* out of my mouth," Aramis says, and laughs nervously —

His breath tastes a little like wine — but only a little. 

"You — I do not expect you to answer —" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I knew. I asked him to bite me, because I knew he hadn't been fed properly — Jason can't feed him by himself, because his blood isn't *human* enough — and it felt... amazing. It felt — no, I'm getting ahead of myself —" 

"Are you?" 

Porthos smiles again. "Yeah, mate. I am. Because it was amazing how he was looking at me before the bite. How he was looking at my *throat*, and, when I made him touch my pulse-point... I got hard." 

Aramis makes a small sound. "Just — from that?" 

"Yeah. I was thinking... I was thinking that it had to be different when he was biting Jason, that it had to be more sexual, or more *something*, since I was his *son* — and then the next thing I knew he was asking me if I were sure I wanted him to bite me." 

"And... you were." 

"I would've done anything for more of him touching me right then, but *especially* that. *Especially* the chance to *feed* him. And his mouth, his teeth, his tongue —" He growls again. "That's not even it. Or — those aren't even the major parts of it. He was just... *pulling* on me. It was like he was pulling me *to* him, Aramis. Telling me he needed me and showing me how all at once. Putting me on my knees and just..." Porthos pants and grins. "He *didn't* make me spend with the first bite." 

Aramis's eyes are — wide. "He... did not?" 

"No. I didn't want him to stop sucking me *down*. He *could've* made me spend that way — and he *has*, since then —" 

"Oh —" 

"But he promised me that he wouldn't stop touching me, that he'd take care of me... and after I reassured him that I really did want my *father* all over me... well." 

"I..." And Aramis swallows. Twice. 

"Aramis?" 

"You are not hesitant? You do not... I *know* you do not fear for your soul —" 

"It's a bit hard to do that when you have conversations with your goddess and she gets stroppy with you for getting made into an undead creature before you could make babies —" 

"Grk — what — what?"

"That's um — well, it's not a long story. Daddy and mum were earth-mages before all this happened, and earth-mages are the All-Mother's — the *earth* mother's — children. They... passed that down." 

Aramis stares at him. 

Porthos... pulls him in for a hug. Just — a careful one. A *gentle* one — 

Aramis makes another small sound and squeezes him *hard* — 

And Porthos squeezes him right back, rocks him in his arms, kisses his temple and tries not to lose himself in how warm he is, how good he smells — 

How *delicious* — 

Porthos has *fed* — that's *why* he was out — and he's not — 

He's *not*. 

"Porthos...? You are tense," Aramis says, and pulls back. 

"No, don't —" 

"You did not want me in your arms, my friend —" 

"Oh, fuck, that's never true," Porthos says, and laughs ruefully — 

Aramis colours again - "You — Porthos..." 

"I was just... trying not to get lost. In your scents." 

Aramis blinks. "You... enjoy my scents?" 

Porthos growls. "I always have. I... but you've been too tense tonight, too upset. I want. I want to make you feel better." 

Aramis pants and stares at him, colouring even more deeply in the gloom. 

"I don't — I —" 

"Porthos." 

"Aramis —" 

"Porthos... how do you wish to make me feel better?" 

And Porthos can smell Aramis's curiosity, his hunger, his *lust*, his *happiness* — 

He can *taste* — 

He's *growling* again -- 

Aramis is *smiling* — 

And there's nothing easier than gathering Aramis into his arms — 

Sucking the gasp out of his mouth — 

"Porthos!" 

Carrying him at speed across the street and into their building, up the stairs to his bedroom where they can be *alone*, and he's pressing Aramis against the door — 

Bracing him and steadying him as he pants and stares, as he looks round at seemingly everything — "Where — where are..." 

"Mm? What are you looking for, love? I'll *find* it." 

And Aramis laughs explosively. "I am looking for your *father* — and his lover."

Porthos concentrates — 

(We're in the study downstairs. You might have seen us had you not been moving *quite* so precipitously.) 

(We were shamelessly eavesdropping,) Daddy says. 

(We still are,) Jason says. 

Porthos snorts and focuses on Aramis again, who is looking at him with eager *hunger* — a lot of different eager hungers. 

Porthos doesn't want to tease these apart, either. 

He just wants to feed them. Just — all of them. 

"They're both downstairs, love. They were eavesdropping on us —" 

"What —" 

"And they still *are* —" 

"But —" 

"But they *will* leave us be... unless you have questions they can answer for you." 

Aramis opens his mouth — and then shakes his head and closes it again. 

"Mm? Tell me. *Ask* me —" 

"And if I want you to answer all of my questions, Porthos?" And his scents are making that sound like — 

Making that *feel* like — 

"If I want you... to clear up all of my ignorance...?" And Aramis rests one hand over Porthos's heart, which is beating faster than it usually does because Porthos had fed recently, but... 

Aramis frowns in confusion. 

But. Porthos moves his hand and smiles ruefully — 

"Porthos —" 

"I'm not like other men —" 

"I *know* this —" 

"My breath won't speed, my heart won't race. I won't sweat." 

"I will miss the scents of your sweat *very* much, my Porthos, and there is clearly much for me to become accustomed to, but — please do not think I need you to be something you are not." 

Porthos frowns and studies Aramis — 

"*Please*. You can smell me, can you not?" 

"I can bloody *taste* you —" 

"Then you can taste that what I say is true —" 

"You want me." 

Aramis flushes dark. "You told me a week ago that I wouldn't lose you, even though you were leaving. I would like — I would like for you to prove that." 

This time, it feels like the growl comes from every *part* of him, and Porthos knows it doesn't sound like the growl of a human *or* any kind of animal Aramis is familiar with — 

His eyes are so *wide* — "Porthos... do you wish to drink me?" 

"Yeah. I do," Porthos says, and that's a growl, too, that's — 

He has to be *honest* — 

Aramis is *nodding* — 

Tilting his head — oh — 

Porthos cups his *face*, holds his head *still* — 

"Porthos —" 

"I don't need to drink you. I've — I'm fed, Aramis." 

"Your eyes are *hungry*, my Porthos," Aramis says, and his smile is wicked, but *his* heart is racing — 

He — "You're afraid." 

"Do not pay *attention* to it —" 

"Love —" 

"No one has ever looked at me as though I were a meal, truly a *meal* —" 

"I won't —" 

"But..." And Aramis touches Porthos's chest again, touches with both hands, strokes up and up — 

"Aramis..." 

"You like my touches?"

"I've *always* —"

But Aramis's hands are on *his* face — 

Aramis's fingers are on Porthos's *mouth* — 

"Oh... Porthos. Even your breath is cool..." 

Porthos stops breathing — 

"Don't do that," Aramis says, and frowns, shaking his head as much as Porthos is *letting* him — 

Porthos moves his *hands* — 

"Do not do that *either* —" 

"*Aramis* —" 

"I smell delicious to you. Beautiful and — mm. Like a *good* meal. Yes?" 

Porthos growls and — doesn't lean in. "You smell like the most perfect meal in the *world*. I want — but I don't *have* to. We can make love other *ways* —" 

Aramis *grunts*. "It. Is making love?" 

"Yes, but —" 

"You did not — but you *did* *imply* this very thing — oh, Porthos, Porthos, do you bite your father when you make love? Does he bite you?" 

"Yeah — yeah, both — sometimes at the same *time* —" 

Aramis makes a low sound and *presses* on Porthos's mouth with his fingertips — 

Porthos *moans* — 

"Oh, Porthos, tell me — tell me *more* —" 

"He bites me while he's fucking me, love, he — he *feeds* on me while he's *pounding* my arse —" 

"Oh, God —" 

"He bites *deep*, but doesn't suck, just lets my blood trickle into his mouth, *pump* into his mouth as my heart beats a little faster..." 

And Aramis is blinking rapidly, licking his lips — 

His scents are so thick, so heavy and hungry and *thick* —

"I —" He makes a *guttural* noise — 

"Aramis..." 

"I want that. I want you to. Oh, fuck, Porthos," he says, laughing nervously and pushing one hand into Porthos's hair — 

Tugging — 

*Pulling* — 

"Aramis, I can't — I won't be able to control —" 

"Do you ache for me, my Porthos?" 

Porthos *snarls* — 

Aramis *gasps* — and grins, mad and beautiful and bright. "Do you *thirst*?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I do —" 

"Do you wish to *mark* — *AHN* — oh, Porthos, *Porthos* —" 

It feels too *easy* to bite this deep, to open Aramis for himself, to — 

Oh, but he's gasping, shaking — 

His blood is so *hot* — 

So sweet-metal-*fresh* — 

(Remember to hold him steady, son —) 

I'll never bloody let him go!

(My boy...) 

Porthos growls his agreement and *grips* Aramis, holds him, holds him steady and close and still and — 

He's moaning and *shuddering* in Porthos's arms, bucking and — 

And Porthos can feel him aching, feel him wanting, feel him — 

Porthos is *reaching* for him, for everything that makes him who he is — 

Reaching the way he *doesn't* with his usual meals, and this — 

He knows it's making a difference, knows he's all but *thrumming* on Aramis's *soul* — he can't stop. 

He has to make Aramis feel him, hear him, *taste* him the way Porthos is tasting *him* — 

Porthos bites *deeper* — 

Aramis shouts and *bucks* — 

Porthos *reaches* — 

(Who what who no don't —) 

Shh, 's just me, love...

(PORTHOS —) 

Shh, shh, I've got you, Porthos says, and sucks *hard* — 

(Oh, please, please, please, you are drinking me!) 

You're the most delicious thing I've ever tasted... other than my Daddy's spend...

(I want to see!) 

Porthos growls and fights the urge to bite again, *again* — 

(Do not fight, do not —) 

Porthos pulls out of the bite, laps the wounds closed — 

"No — please, no —" 

— and he can't speak before he's pushing Aramis's head to the other side and biting, growling, sucking, *taking* — 

"AHN — yes, my Porthos, *yes*!" 

Porthos makes the bite *deep* —

(PLEASE —) 

Anything for you, bloody *anything*, and you taste so *perfect* — 

(Please don't stop!) 

I can't take much more — 

(Do not STOP!) 

Porthos growls and reaches down to *squeeze* Aramis's hard, *hot* cock through his trousers — 

(*Fuck* —) 

You're hard for me... 

(I I I will spend —) 

Maybe you should do it soon... 

(Fuck Porthos — *please* —) 

Porthos starts *working* Aramis's cock through his clothes, fast and just a little brutal, just a little *mean*. Maybe you should do it — now, he says, and bites even *deeper* — 

Aramis *screams* — 

Shudders and bucks and bucks and screams *again* — 

Porthos *works* Aramis's cock *fast* and tries not to suck — 

Tries not to suck too — 

Hard — 

Oh, love, you taste so *fucking* good. Spend for me, spend so I can lick you clean and then make you spend *again*, Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis *hard* — 

Aramis *howls* — and the scents of his spend, of his pleasure and pain and hunger and *want* — 

The scents are driving Porthos *mad*, making him lap even as he drinks, suckles, tries for *more* — 

(Son, pull *out*.) 

Fuck — 

(Do it now.) 

Daddy — 

(Do it.)

He does, he does, and he laps the wounds closed, and Aramis — slumps. But he's laughing breathlessly, and his colour isn't bad, and — 

(You were close to the line, not over it.) 

Yes, Daddy. I'll be more careful. 

(Good boy —) 

"Do you... mm. Do you always listen to your Daddy...?" And Aramis is still slumped in his *arms*, still — 

They both know that if he tried to stand on his own feet right now, he'd fall *over* — but. 

He's glittering at Porthos and *daring* him. 

Porthos carries him to the bed -- the bed he only sleeps alone in when he *wants* to -- and *looms* over him, just a little. "It's a useful thing to do when I want to avoid killing the wrong people." 

Aramis gasps — and then purses his lips. "You were not close to killing me." 

"I *was* close to losing enough control that you wouldn't have been able to leave here tonight, love." 

"And if that is what I dearly wish?" 

Porthos growls and looms more, *licks* at the fresh scars on Aramis's throat — 

"Oh. Oh, that feels — " Aramis moans for him and arches — 

*Offers* — 

"Do it, bite again —" 

Shit — Porthos pulls *back* — 

"*Porthos* —" 

(I knew he was mad when I took him on, of course...) 

Daddy — 

Daddy sighs *contentedly*. (You'll have to take him in hand...) 

Porthos growls and *looks* at Aramis, who is studying him even as he tries to pull him *close* again — 

(You'll have to... make him *properly* yours. It's the only way with men like him, son. Otherwise they'll drive you to do *suicidally* stupid things... more often than they should,) Daddy says, and laughs. 

Porthos shivers and squeezes his eyes shut — 

Wants — 

*Wants* — 

(I believe,) Jason says, (that you should *take*.) 

"You are speaking with your Daddy again. You are..." Aramis licks his lips, narrows his eyes, *tugs* on Porthos — 

"Aramis —" 

"You are *speaking* with your *Daddy* and not with *me*. Tell me what you're saying. Tell me what he's *instructing* you to *do*." 

Porthos *pants* — 

(Go on, son. Honesty is important is relationships.) 

(Good that you've figured that *out*, amant —) 

"*Tell* me! Tell me or I will *leave* —" 

"You *won't*," Porthos says, and — and he's pinning Aramis. By the wrists. He's pinning him, and he's shoved his legs apart with his sodding *knees*, and — 

And Aramis pants *once*. "Why won't I? You have left me more than capable of leaving —" 

"You'll bloody *stay* with me!" 

Aramis narrows his eyes even more. "The way you stayed with me...?" 

Porthos bares his *teeth* — 

"Yes, yes, you are *different* now. You are not a *human* man now. But —" 

"Daddy was telling me to take you in *hand*, Aramis." 

Aramis blinks — and looks at him. 

"Daddy was telling me to make you *mine*." 

Aramis... flares his nostrils. Just that. 

But he can't hide the way his heart is beating that much faster again — 

The way his scents are full of excitement and hunger and — hope.

Oh... Aramis. Porthos firms his grip on Aramis's wrists. "Here's the thing about Daddy, love — he gives *really* good advice when you give him a chance to do it."

Aramis's heart beats even faster. 

"Daddy knows the look — the *feel* — of a man who needs to be put in his place. He's got stories for *years*..." 

Aramis's eyes — 

Aramis eyes get just a little bit wide. Porthos licks his lips. "Yeah. You want those stories, too, don't you." 

"I... yes." 

"Do you want everything that comes with them?" 

Aramis flushes, and *starts* to shake his head — 

"Shh, no, I know that was too much to ask —" 

"I am not a *coward* —" 

"No, you're not. That was still too much." 

Aramis flares his nostrils again. His eyes are... so dark. So wide. 

Porthos growls. "I'm so hard for you, love. I'm so *hungry*, even though you've fed me —" 

"You must *take* —" 

"Shh," Porthos says, and *looks* at Aramis. 

Aramis looks like he'll *kick* for that little order for a moment — but then he absolutely doesn't. Then — "Yes, Porthos," he says, and lowers his eyes. 

Porthos growls *needily*. "Oh, Aramis. You know you just made me hungrier, don't you?" 

"My Porthos wants an obedient boy --" 

"Your Porthos wants *you*. Look up." 

Aramis parts his lips — 

Pants — 

"Is my Porthos certain that he desires —" 

"Yeah. I am." 

Aramis makes a small sound — and looks up. His eyes are blazing, wild, hungry, *needy* —

And Porthos has to growl *again*. "You're the one I need, love. You're the one I need at my *side*. You're the one I need to give it *up* for me. I *don't* want some anonymous boy."

"But... you enjoyed..." 

"I enjoyed you bending your head for me because it was *you* doing it and *you* enjoying it, too. When you stopped, I stopped. Do you understand?" 

Aramis's expression is — hurt. 

"Aramis? What is it?" 

"I — this would be... easier. If you were to simply... overwhelm me." 

And there are a lot of images for that. 

A lot of *possibilities* — 

Porthos squeezes Aramis's wrists *hard*. "Is that what you want, love? Me to drive you out of your head?" 

Aramis moans. "You would do this thing. You would — just because I wanted —" Aramis shakes his head — 

"I think you're underestimating how *much* time I've spent gagging to *touch* you, love." 

And there's a *weight* on the back of his neck from Daddy — 

A *cautionary* weight, but — 

"Porthos — oh, my Porthos, I — do not. Do not do it," Aramis says, and he sounds *tortured* — 

He looks so *hungry* — "Why shouldn't I? Mm? Why don't you want me to?" 

"Because. Because I think that I will behave... poorly. If you do," Aramis says, and looks down again, flushing hard — 

This time it's shame. 

Porthos can't let that stand. He can't — 

He moves Aramis's wrists to one hand and cups Aramis's chin, pets his beard, *suggests*, with just a little pressure, that he lift his head again — 

"Please." 

"All right, love. Tell me how you'd behave poorly, then. Tell me what that means." 

Aramis exhales with a shudder — 

Swallows — 

"I. I believe that I would... leave. And... avoid you. As much as I could. For... some length of time." 

Porthos growls.

"Please, I apologize —" 

"Shh. You already asked me not to do it. You already made it *right*." 

"I. I...." 

"Shh," Porthos says, and strokes all along Aramis's jawline. "You fixed it, love. You made it so you couldn't do that to me. Couldn't *hurt* me that way —" 

Aramis *jerks* his head up — "I *never* want to hurt you!" he says, and his eyes are wide, wild, *starved* —

Porthos growls and leans in to lick his mouth — 

"Oh — you taste —" 

"I taste like your *blood*. Do you need me to stop?" 

"No!" 

Porthos dips his tongue into Aramis's mouth — 

"*Mm* —" 

Porthos pulls *out*. "The first time Daddy kissed me after biting me, I found it a *bit* odd. I think I actually would've had an easier time tasting his blood than my own." 

"Oh... yes, that —" And Aramis blushes. "I am... too accustomed to the taste in your mouth meaning that I am *wounded*."

"*Exactly*. We *don't* need to kiss until I wash my mouth out." 

"But... you wish to kiss me." 

Porthos grins. "I've wanted to kiss you senseless since about five minutes *before* we met." 

"I — what?" 

"You were buying a pastry from a baker's boy, and he made you laugh," Porthos says. Your entire *body* lit up, and I thought to myself — 'what would it be like to hold that man in my arms and kiss him right and proper?'" 

Aramis moans loudly. "I — I — please kiss me! Please don't *wait*." 

"Aramis, it will be *better* for you —" 

"It will *not*. My throat *burns* where your lips aren't touching it anymore and I — please, *please* — mmn —" 

And Porthos *tries* to keep the kiss shallow at first — 

Tries not to — 

Aramis whimpers and *arches* under him, *reaches* for him with all his senses, with his beautiful and hungry *soul* — 

(PLEASE!) 

Fuck, Aramis, there is *no* way I don't want to make you spend, Porthos says, giving him his body, his weight, his *tongue* — 

"Mmgh —" 

Go on and taste yourself, Porthos says, pushing a hand up into Aramis's hair, tugging at it and pulling it *taut*. Go on and get *used* to the taste of your blood in my mouth — 

Aramis cries *out* into Porthos's mouth — 

Porthos pulls back enough to suck and bite at those pretty lips, to make them swell, to make them *soft* — 

"Please — *please* —" 

Just keep begging. You'll get everything we *both* want, Porthos says, and kisses him again — 

Again — 

Fucks Aramis's mouth with his tongue and urges him to *suck* — 

Aramis whimpers and does it — 

Pants and then does it *harder* — 

Good boy... 

Aramis bucks and spreads his *legs* — 

Is that so... 

(Yes yes yes — oh, please —) 

Porthos drags the kiss down over Aramis's jaw to his throat, his pretty marked *throat* — 

"Oh, *Porthos* —" 

He *sucks* at the scars — 

Aramis groans and *shakes* under him, bucks again, groans so *sweetly* — 

(Be careful, son —) 

*Porthos* groans and rips himself *back* when he realizes that his fangs are lengthening, that he'd pricked his own lip — 

He sucks *that* blood away — 

Licks away the bit that had dripped on Aramis's creamy skin —

Licks and licks and *licks* at the scars, and Aramis is shaking under him, trembling — 

So *aroused* — 

So — 

Talk to me, love. Tell me what you need — 

"*You*!" 

Porthos growls and — doesn't *bite*. 

"Oh. Oh, *Porthos*, are you certain that you are not still *hungry* —" 

"'m always going to be hungry for you, I —" Porthos growls again and kneels *up*, seeking futilely for air that doesn't taste like Aramis and just frustrating himself with air that doesn't taste *enough* like Aramis. He growls *again* — 

Aramis reaches for him — 

Porthos catches his wrists and holds them, squeezes them — 

And watches Aramis's cock jerk behind his trousers. 

Porthos licks his lips. "Let me strip you. Let me — let me see you naked for me." 

Aramis *grunts*. "Yes. Yes, Porthos — oh —" 

Porthos uses his speed to do it, but not all of it. He's trying to be careful and just frustrating himself more and more and *more* — 

(Be *easy*, son —) 

I *need* him —

(He's yours. And he'll almost certainly *tell* you that sooner rather than later.) 

Daddy — 

(Focus on what you're doing,) Daddy says, and it's a weight on the back of his neck, a hand on the back of his head pushing him right down *into* Aramis's groin where he can lick and lick and — 

Nibble — 

Aramis is moaning and *writhing* — 

Porthos grips his inner thighs and *holds* them spread, and there are senses that tell him that this spend won't really feed him, *can't* really feed him, but it's still delicious, still perfect, still *Aramis*. 

Porthos *slurps* at the tip of his long, pretty cock - 

"*Porthos*!"

Porthos *swallows* Aramis's cock the way he's wanted to forever, the way he's *needed* to, and Aramis arches up and shouts — 

Porthos moves one hand to his chest and *shoves* him back down — 

Aramis's cock *jerks* in his mouth as he gasps — 

As he *sobs* —

He's scrabbling at the *sheets* - 

He's scrabbling at the sheets with his fingers *and* his toes — 

He's *pumping* up into Porthos's *mouth*, helpless and hungry, helpless and *wild* — 

And so Porthos grips Aramis's hips in both hands and forces him to fuck Porthos's mouth in *his* rhythm, in *his* way, just the *right* way — 

"Oh, God! *God*!" 

Faster then, harder — 

"Porthos! Oh, please, *Porthos*!" 

He's so bloody *hungry* — 

"Take me! Eat me *alive*!" 

And the growl catches in his throat — 

The growl goes *nowhere* because he can't stop making Aramis *pound* him — 

He sucks *hard* — and Aramis starts sobbing, starts moaning, starts babbling out *prayers* — 

(You'll have to teach him better than that, son...) 

Porthos is too hungry to *laugh*, but he feels it anyway, wants it, wants his Daddy to see *this* — 

(I *feel* it —) 

Wants his Daddy to *have* it — 

(*Fuck* —) 

(You're a generous young man,) Jason says, and there's a question in his voice, a curiosity that goes beyond how gentle he's been with Porthos, how easy and open and *welcoming* — 

Hot, soothing touches in a dark that would never stop Porthos again, low-voiced reassurances, and a strong throat pressed to his lips — 

("You'll need something else eventually, but try this to break your fast...") 

And now Jason wants to know — needs to know — how far Porthos will go. 

How far Porthos will go with *him*. 

There's only one answer. Porthos *opens* himself to Jason as far as he can, as *much* as he can — 

He can feel Jason *stagger* — 

Families belong together. 

(Porthos —) 

One moment, Porthos says, and gives himself back to Aramis, to his desperate cries, to the salt of his sweat and the steady trickle of his slick down Porthos's *throat*. His cock is jerking constantly and his prayers are jagged things, incoherent and multilingual as he shakes and *sobs*. 

He's *going* to spend, and it's going to be soon — but Porthos is too hungry to wait. He lets go of one hip and works his head on that cock, works his head just as quickly and smoothly as he can, just as *nastily* as he can, and then he shoves two fingers into his mouth *next* to Aramis's cock — 

"Nah — *please*!" 

The answer is *yes*, love, Porthos says, tugging his wet fingers out again and pressing them right up against that tight-furled hole — 

Aramis shouts and spreads his legs wide, flexes *open* — Porthos doesn't wait. He pushes in, slow and easy and *easy* — 

And Aramis screams again and again, short and sharp and *harsh*, cock jerking and all but *spitting* slick all over Porthos's mouth — 

Porthos sucks *viciously* hard and pushes deeper, just a little *deeper* — 

And Aramis *shoves* himself down onto Porthos's fingers and wails, *wails* — and spends even as Porthos is rubbing at his hip almost frantically and suckling and lapping and — 

And doing that *desperately*, tasting, *tasting* — 

Suckling *more*, holding Aramis still in his *mouth* and *milking* him with his lips — 

Moving his free hand to his bollocks and milking those — 

Taking him, tasting him, *having* — 

He can't *stop* himself from crooking his fingers — 

Aramis screams and spurts and spurts and Porthos is groaning, desperate, sucking fast and trying to keep his fangs from — 

He can't — 

He pulls back — 

"Porthos!" 

Porthos works Aramis's cock with his fist and kisses the tip, licks it, nuzzles it and works every drop of fluid he doesn't slurp up into his *beard* — 

"Ah — *ahn* —" 

He can't get his bloody fangs to *retract* — but he can still love his brother, touch him and kiss him and — 

Oh, kiss his *mouth* — 

Just a little — 

"Oh — your *fangs*..." 

"I know, that's why I pulled off..."

Aramis blinks rapidly — he's not focusing all that well — and laughs. "I am very glad of this!" 

Porthos laughs, too. "I'm glad you're glad. But uh... I need to figure out how to *retract* these." 

(You need to spend, son.) 

But — 

(You're wound tighter than a bowstring, son. Let your brother take care of you.) 

And that —

(You trust me to take care of your son, Captain?) 

That was... public. 

(I believe someone said that families belong together,) Jason says. 

Aramis blinks and blushes — 

Porthos smiles wryly and pulls out, nice and gently. "That was Ser Jason Blood —" 

"Your Daddy's lover... and brother." 

(Precisely that, among other things, son. And you shouldn't call me Captain, anymore —) 

(You will *always* be my Captain, sir.) 

Daddy hums. (Don't think I don't appreciate that, but... I'd like to be rather more than that to you.) 

Aramis swallows. (I was not aware that I had... attracted you to me.) 

(From the very first interview, son. I knew you were just as mad as mad could be... and just as dangerous as I could wish for in my bloodiest dreams. I wanted you. And I watched my Porthos wanting you just as much, and contented myself in my boy's excellent taste.) 

Aramis sits up on his elbows and looks at *Porthos* before saying, (And Ser Jason? What brings you... contentment?)

Jason laughs richly in all their minds. (Many things. Not least of which are phenomenally brave young men — young *soldiers* — who also happen to be remarkably open-minded.) 

(I have not agreed to *anything* —) 

(You've agreed to *consider* all sorts of things, Aramis. You must agree that *that* is already far more than most would ever, ever do.) 

Aramis firms his mouth into a hard line. (Most people do not open their hearts the way they should, Ser Jason. Even to those who are nominally closest to them.) 

(Just Jason, please — and you'll get no argument from me on that particular score. Humanity has done *very* badly at loving their neighbours.) 

Aramis cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. (You speak like a scholar, Ser — Jason.) 

(I am one, in my way. And I am at your disposal for any discussions you may wish to have about scholarly pursuits.) 

Aramis smiles wickedly. (*Religious* scholarly pursuits...?) 

(Oh, yes. It's one of my great hobbies to fill the minds of the young with heresy and despair.) 

Aramis blinks — 

(Jason.) 

(What? It's *prudent*, amant.) 

(Remember that our *relationship* is built on the *sufferance* of a god, please.) 

(Oh — murdering boggarts. You *would* have to ruin my effervescent mood.) 

(It's what I'm here for, lover.) 

(Hmph. Did you have any other questions for us, Aramis?) 

Aramis blinks again — 

Looks at Porthos — 

Looks at Porthos's *mouth* — and flushes. "I — no —" 

"Don't rush yourself, love. I can wait." 

"I do not *want* to make my Porthos wait," Aramis says, fierce and *hungry* — 

Porthos grunts — 

"I want..." And Aramis flushes even more deeply, even more *darkly*. (Perhaps my Treville and my Jason will give their Aramis more chances to speak with them.)

And *Porthos* flushes — 

Daddy is *growling* — 

Aramis is panting — 

(We are,) Jason says, and his voice is low and rough and *hungry*, (at your disposal...)

(Yes we bloody *are*.) 

(Thank you,) Aramis says, and his voice is just a little small, and so, so sweet. And then he focuses on Porthos. "What does my Porthos need, mm? What can I give?" 

'Everything' is the first thought that comes to his desperate mind — 

"Then that is what you'll have," Aramis says, and lies back down, reaching for the upper corners of the mattress. "Unless you want me on my belly...?" 

Porthos *grunts*, but — "Aramis —" 

"Are you worried that I'll give too much and run away, my Porthos?"

"I'm worried I'll *take* too much, love." 

Aramis grins and shakes his head. "You could never *do* that. You've given me *everything*. How can I give any less?" 

Porthos — moans.

Reaches — 

"What do you *want*, love?" 

"For you to follow your Daddy's *advice*, my Porthos. Take me in *hand*. Make me *yours*. *Spend*. Spend for *me*." 

"Oh, love..."

Aramis raises his eyebrows — and spreads his legs wide. 

And it's perfect to stroke him, perfect to touch him everywhere, perfect to suck his nipples and pull *back* before he can bite and — yeah, flip him right over onto his belly — 

"*Oh* —" 

Spread that arse *wide* — 

"Porthos, *yes*!" 

"One day you'll tell me why you perfumed your arse-crack before you left the house *tonight* —" 

"It is a reflex!"

Porthos pauses. 

*Looks* at Aramis. 

*Right* at the back at of his head — 

"It is a reflex I entirely encouraged in myself tonight because I was hoping you would *touch* me there!" 

Porthos rubs at Aramis's hole, which is just a *little* swollen. 

"Ohn — oh — oh, Porthos —" 

"I like you natural, love." 

"N-natural?" 

"I like your *musk*." 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"I like you *dirty*."

"I — I — I will never perfume myself again!" 

"You can perfume yourself other places," Porthos says, rubbing harder and plucking the oil from the bedside table with his other hand. "I approve of your taste." 

"*Please* —" 

"Just not here." 

"Yes, Porthos — anything — I — *please* —" 

"I can't eat your arse, yet. My sodding teeth won't *let* me." 

"Please *use* me until you spend!" 

Porthos growls. "I think we'll be examining *that* idea in *great* detail..." 

"Yes yes yes please —" 

"*One* moment," Porthos says, and slicks his fingers — 

"Oh, *please* —" 

"Shh," Porthos says, and pushes in with two, steady and not at all slow. 

"Oh. *Oh*..." 

"There's a love," Porthos says, and plants his free hand between Aramis's shoulder blades. "Now you just stay right there and take this." 

Aramis whines and *flexes* open around Porthos's fingers — 

Tries to spread his legs *wider* — 

Tries to *give* more — 

"Everything! *Everything* for you, Porthos!" 

"That's *just* what I *want*," Porthos says, and fucks Aramis nice and fast with his fingers, but not too hard -- 

"*God* --" 

"You like that?" 

"I like it!" 

"You like feeling me, love?" 

Aramis groans and clenches -- 

"No, no, stay nice and open for me. Right up until I *tell* you to clench." 

Aramis flexes open with a *cry* -- and stays open, panting and sweating. The scents of him are rising musky and *hot* from beneath Porthos, and it's -- 

Porthos growls and *twists* his fingers -- 

"Porthos!" 

"How's that, then?" 

"I -- I -- *good*!" 

"And this?" Porthos crooks his fingers gently, working them just a little -- 

"Please *harder*!" 

Porthos growls and gives it to Aramis *immediately* -- 

And immediately gets a *sobbing* cry, the sight of him *clutching* at the sheets -- 

"Oh, good boy..." 

"Yes -- yes?" 

"I like it when you make a *lot* of noise, Aramis..." And Porthos starts *fucking* Aramis again --

Aramis moans *quietly* -- 

"You can do better than that," Porthos says, twisting and crooking *hard* -- 

Aramis *shouts* -- "I will! I will!" 

"Yeah?" 

"Please! Please open me and make me ready for your cock!"

Porthos growls and crooks again -- 

"Ahn --" 

Again -- 

"*Please* --" 

*Again* --

"Oh, Porthos, *Porthos* --" 

"You don't know how many times I dreamed of this, Aramis," Porthos says, and starts *fucking* Aramis hard -- 

"Yes -- *yes* -- please *tell* me!" 

"Wanted it every bloody *night*," Porthos says, and crooks *again* -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Tossed myself off right *next* to you. Dreamed of burying my cock deep in your arse and listening to you beg for *more*." 

"Please more!" 

"Tossed myself off next to you while you were tossing *yourself* off -- nnh. You never made enough *noise*, love..." 

"I -- I --" 

"Why's that, mm?" 

"I was listening..." 

Porthos thrusts *hard* -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"*What* were you listening to?"

"Your sounds! Your breath!"

Porthos growls and -- growls more. He can't *stop* for long moments, hot moments -- 

He can't stop *shoving* his fingers *deep* -- 

He -- 

"*Please*, my Porthos, sometimes -- sometimes you would growl then!" 

And *that* chokes off the growl -- "Did I, then." 

"Yes!" 

"You liked that. Wanted that." 

"I dreamed -- I dreamed of you *biting* --" 

And the rest of that is darkness, confusing *movement* -- 

And the realization that Daddy is *absolutely* yanking his lead. Just -- *fuck* -- 

(Back with us, son?) 

I -- I -- Porthos *focuses* -- he hadn't quite managed to lunge all the way to Aramis's throat. 

He takes a breath -- and doesn't smell fear, as opposed to hints of *thoughtfulness* in all the lust and hunger and *musk*. 

He -- I'm here. I'm -- "Uh -- let's not talk about biting *quite* yet, love." 

"I will *not*, my Porthos," Aramis says, in pretty much exactly the same tone of voice he'd use to promise not to commit mayhem until the only extant witnesses could be cheaply bribed or safely murdered. 

(Aramis.) 

Aramis's scents get *prickly* -- 

And Porthos can't stop himself from growling low and hungry and -- a bit more eldritch than usual, even. His dog has things to say about this. 

Aramis inhales sharply -- 

"Yeah, you know what that growl meant, at least a little..." 

"I... do not..." 

"You know you have to take it *seriously*," Porthos says, and *spreads* his two fingers -- 

Aramis *shouts* -- "I -- *please* -- I mean, yes!" 

"The dog in me has *just* as many opinions about putting you in your place as the man in me, love. Maybe even a few more." 

"Oh..." 

"The *dog* in me believes in *punishing* bad behaviour. Brutally, sometimes." 

Aramis stiffens -- and then very obviously *forces* himself to relax. "How... brutally..." 

"*Too* brutally for *me*, love -- at least for a first time with someone I've never even talked this stuff *through* with."

Aramis nods slowly, thoughtful scents rising once more. "You will want to *agree* with me about what is... a proper punishment." 

"That's just right. Everything has to be agreed upon, love. Everything has to be *right* -- or I won't feel right, at all --" 

Aramis opens his mouth -- 

"Whether or not my mouth is full of your perfect blood, at the time."

Aramis flushes -- 

Clenches -- 

Grips at the sheets with his fingers -- 

Porthos stills his fingers entirely and strokes Aramis's hip with his free hand. "What is it, love. Tell me." 

"My Porthos, I... I have done... this. I have made love with discipline, and submission... service." 

"I knew that much, love. It's one of *many* things that's been driving me up a tree cock *first* with you." 

Aramis laughs breathlessly and turns his head enough that he can rest his cheek on the rumpled sheets. "My Porthos, I have not done this the way *you* do it." 

Porthos blinks -- 

Thinks *hard* about pulling out and *regrouping* -- 

(Don't do that, son.) 

But -- 

"Yes, my Porthos, *listen* to your father."

Porthos frowns. "Love... tell me what I'm missing so I can fix it. I will be the *first* person to admit that I'm not thinking at my best right now, but -- that's just it. I *can't* fuck this up just because I'm too randy to think straight. I won't let that *happen* --" 

"No, my Porthos, you will *not*. And this... makes you very, very different from the overwhelming majority of people I have done this with." 

Porthos blinks -- but that's just the man in him. The *human* man, at that. Every other part of him is growling low and dreaming of... blood. 

So is Daddy. 

So -- in only *somewhat* different ways -- is Jason. 

And the smile on Aramis's face...

It's small, and bright, and surprised, and so *young* -- 

It -- 

"Aramis... you have to let me take care of you from now on. You --" 

"I... have to?" 

"*Yes* --" 

"I *must* do this thing, my Porthos? It is... an order?" And that -- 

That was an honest question, with *one* right answer. But the way Aramis's heart is pounding -- 

The way his skin is *shining* with fresh sweat -- 

The way he's *panting* -- 

Porthos knows the right answer is the right answer for him, too. For *everyone* in this family -- *including* Athos, whenever they manage to lure *him* out of the shadows.

For now, though... he grips Aramis's hip just *so*, lifting him up onto his knees -- 

"*Oh* -- my Porthos --" 

"You're *going* to let me take care of you, love. In *every* way, from now *on*." 

"I --" 

Porthos smacks Aramis's hip *while* crooking -- 

"*Ai* --" 

"And yes, love, that *is* an order, and we're *all* going to bloody follow it. Am I *understood*." 

"Yes, my Porthos! *Yes*!" 

Porthos smacks Aramis's hip again -- 

"Oh --" 

Again -- 

"Please, please, *fuck* me!" 

"Not spank you...?" 

"Spank me *after* you fuck me, so that my cries harden your cock enough for you to fuck me *again*, my Porthos --" 

And Porthos is snarling and *spreading* Aramis's arse with his free hand, staring at that swelling hole and just -- 

Just fucking his way *in* with his two fingers, in and in, in and *in*, in and -- 

Yeah, twist, twist just like this, twist and see if he can make his love *bark* for him -- 

"Oh, my *Porthos* --" 

"Do you need *more* yet, love?"

"I -- I --" 

"*That* didn't sound like yes," Porthos says, and *crooks* -- 

"*Fuck*," Aramis says, and grinds his face into the sheets -- 

Lifts his *arse* -- 

Clenches up *tight* -- and flexes open just that fast, just that perfect, just that *beautiful* -- 

"Oh, *love*... here," Porthos says, and crooks again and again, pets and presses and *tortures* that sweet little button -- 

Over and over and *over*, and -- 

And Aramis groans low and shudders -- and then starts *shoving* himself back on Porthos's fingers, starts *riding* Porthos's fingers, starts -- 

Fuck, he shoves his fingers in his *mouth*, and Porthos is at *war* with himself, because Aramis shouting around his wet fingers is one of the hottest things he's seen in his *life*, but he's not making enough *noise* anymore -- 

And then Aramis is gasping and stiffening -- 

His scents are *worried* -- 

(Tighten your *lead*, son --)

And Porthos realizes that he'd begun *snarling* and gripping Aramis's arse hard enough to *bruise*. He -- 

*Fuck*. He shakes it *off* -- 

"Get those fingers out of your *mouth*!" 

"Nnh -- *yes*, my Porthos, I -- I *apologize* --" 

"*No*, love. We didn't make it a *rule*. It's not your bloody *fault*," Porthos says, and pets where he'd bruised, strokes, *rubs* -- 

"Yes -- oh, yes -- I will *remember* --" 

"*Breathe*!" 

Aramis *gasps* -- 

Grips at the *sheets* again -- 

Gasps again -- and then starts to slow his breathing down, starts to *calm* himself down, and -- 

And Porthos can't wait that long. Can't -- 

It's enough to have his own control back, enough to have Aramis's *good* scents back, his needy scents, his *wanting* scents, and ah, fuck, all that *musk* -- 

He -- "I'm *drunk* on you!" 

And Aramis gasps again and tries to lift his arse *higher* --

Tries to *give* himself to Porthos -- and Porthos has to take. He goes *right* back to working Aramis's pleasure-button, heating him up quick and *systematic*, like. Doing his love *just* the way Daddy does *him* when he doesn't want to wait any longer than *strictly* necessary -- 

"Oh -- *oh* --" 

"Do you *like* it." 

"I want -- I want to *see*!" 

"We'll show you *everything*, love."

"I -- you -- *please*!" 

(No secrets anymore, son...) 

(None *whatsoever*, Aramis...) 

Aramis *grunts* -- and flexes open *wide*. 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles. "I'll remember *that*, love..." 

"Yes -- I need -- I always need to *know*, my Porthos, I always --" 

"I'll teach you. I'll show you. I won't hide a bloody *thing*. Now tell me if you're ready for another *finger*." 

"I am ready for your *cock*." 

"You're *tight* --"

"I have been fucked with *many* women's phalluses, my Porthos --" 

"They *obviously* weren't that sodding *big* --" 

"They were big *enough*," Aramis says, and smiles sharply over his shoulder, "to make it *impossible* for me to do *anything* but feel every *inch* of your cock as it enters me." 

"Oh... fuck." 

Aramis licks the edges of his teeth. "Do you never...? With your good father? With Ser Jason...?" 

"Daddy likes me loose and sloppy --" 

"*Oh* --" 

"And Jason and I haven't -- uh. We've *mostly* stuck to the, you know, assorted *fantastic* things a vampire and an extremely experienced blood-witch can do with each other. I'm not sure -- *yet* -- what kind of ride he likes with people other than Daddy, who likes it rough." 

"You must --" 

"We'll show you every *bit* of it. But --" 

"Do you *wish* Ser Jason to fuck you?" 

Porthos laughs -- and doesn't do a damned thing about the hunger in it. 

"Oh..."

"He can make you... feel him. He can make you feel... everything he wants, everything he needs, everything he's been thinking and fantasizing and *dreaming* on about you. And then he can make all of that *so* real that, when you wake up, you're bloody confused to still have all your clothes on." 

"I... hm. Does *he* not wish...?" And Aramis may or may *not* realize this, but he's using the connections Porthos had built in him to reach for Jason -- 

For Jason *and* Daddy -- 

And Jason reaches back. (I absolutely... wish, Aramis. But, before Treville turned Porthos, it had been my intention to allow Porthos to get to know me at his own pace. To grow *accustomed* to me -- and all my... strangeness --) 

"My Porthos is not *slow*!" 

"See, that's what I said. But that blood-magic is *extremely* distracting." 

(You've *enjoyed* it --) 

(Yes, he has, lover,) *Daddy* says. (Now stop using it to hold him at bay.)

(I -- hm. I... hm.) 

Aramis raises an eyebrow.

Porthos raises two of his own. 

(I should say,) Jason says, (that Aramis truly did tell you that you're allowed to spank him -- presumably vigorously -- *right* after you roger him senseless.) 

Porthos's cock twitches violently enough that he winds up spattering Aramis's thighs and arse with bloody slick. Also the sheets, some. 

"Oh! So *cool* --" 

"I --" 

"Do not *apologize*! Fuck me!" 

The *man* in Porthos is truly, honestly, asking Aramis one more time if he's sure that he doesn't want to be stretched a little bit more. The rest of him -- 

The rest of him has already oiled his cock *thoroughly* -- 

Lined himself up -- 

And all of him is whuffing and *growling*, tingling and skin-hungry for the steamy heat from Aramis's *hole*. It -- 

Aramis's heat all *night* has been incredible, but -- 

That heat on his *cock* -- 

That heat like this -- 

"My Porthos --" 

Porthos snarls and spreads Aramis's wider before pushing -- 

Pushing -- 

And he isn't in halfway before Aramis clenches and gasps and -- 

And Porthos howls, howls like Daddy, feels the dog inside him rise and *flex* within him, feels the dog inside him *urge* a shift that Porthos knows, with all of himself, that he'll be able to *control* -- 

But he doesn't want to. 

He doesn't -- 

(Tighten. Your. *Lead*.) 

Porthos grunts and *jerks* -- and remembers who he bloody *is*. 

He *yanks* on his lead until it feels like he's strangling from the inside out -- 

He growls at *himself* -- 

He *promises* the dog inside him a time to be *free* -- and opens a *space* between his twinned souls to share the pleasure of *this* moment: One *vicious* thrust to get *in*, all the way *in* -- 

And Aramis *shouts* -- 

Smiles so broadly -- 

Tosses his *head* -- 

And Porthos is gripping his hip with his slick hand and gripping that gorgeous fucking *hair* with his other hand -- 

Yanking Aramis's *head* back -- 

"Oh, yes, *yes*!" 

And every part of Porthos is singing for that, losing himself, *throwing* himself into this -- this *rut*, because he can't bring himself to pull out very far, won't *let* himself pull out very far -- 

He has to stay *in*, stay *deep*, shove himself in-in-*in*, grind and *shove*, give it to his love, force those low, breathy, *rough* grunts out of his stretched *throat* -- 

His -- 

Oh, his *love*, and Daddy was right, Daddy was always *right*, and it still feels disloyal to be grateful for the *attack* that had made Daddy a *blood-drinker*, but it had given them *this*, given all of them *this*, and this isn't even close to the first time that Porthos has been wild with the rut and thanking everything holy he could *perceive* for -- 

All of this. 

Every sodding *bit* of it -- 

And, yeah, the All-Mother is *absolutely* reaching *back* with amusement and care and love and a *gently* ominous reminder that he will always be Her sweet and beautiful seed, no matter *what* he allows to happen to himself -- 

She caresses his spirit from top to bottom -- 

Strokes him and rides him for a thrilling-hot-*full* moment that leaves him even hotter and *wilder* and he comes back to an Aramis who's gasping between *yells*, between -- 

Between *yowls* -- 

Porthos is *already* smacking his hip -- 

Porthos is fucking him *harder* -- 

Shoving up against his pleasure-button and growling, *growling* -- 

Aramis whines like a *pup* -- 

The dog *leaps* within him -- 

And Porthos surrenders everything and *covers* Aramis, *his* Aramis -- 

Covers him and *grips* his strong chest, so powerful, so scarred and *worked* -- 

So *beautiful* -- 

And Aramis is trying to gasp again and getting nothing, trying to yell and only making small and *broken* sounds -- 

He -- 

Porthos's *fangs* are dropping -- 

The dog *needs* -- 

All of him *needs* -- 

Daddy, *please* -- 

(Do it, son. You have to.) 

And it's not even a thought after that, not even *surrender*. Just a moment to see the shine of sweat on sleek, pale-golden skin interrupted with bite scars -- 

And then he's *in*, teeth and cock -- 

In and drinking deep -- 

In and rutting-shoving-*shoving* -- 

In and *sucking*, and everything is dark, silky, sweet -- 

Everything is the man in his arms where he was always meant to be -- 

Everything is their mate on all fours, their mate in his jaws, their mate who is finally *correct*, and nothing is better -- 

Nothing except for his high-sharp wails; except for his brutal-perfect clenches; except for the warm and musky cloud of his scents -- and the scents of his spend -- 

All of his *spend*, which is theirs now. 

Theirs forever. 

The rush of power-need-*demand* spikes *hard* when Aramis slumps, and Porthos is fucking him harder, faster and *harder* -- 

Driving in and *in* even as Aramis drools all over the pillow -- 

Even as Porthos manages to break the bite and lick the wounds healed -- 

Even as Aramis's scents lose *their* urgency and become something warmer, something softer and more furred -- 

Porthos *needs* -- 

(My Porthos... will always *have*.) 

*Please* -- 

(I am *yours*, my Porthos. I will *never* leave your side again...) 

(Oh, son, *don't* --) 

The man in Porthos is listening to his Daddy -- or trying to, even in this moment. 

The rest of him is battened on Aramis's throat -- 

The rest of him has hauled them up to their knees -- 

Yanked Aramis's head to the side -- 

Battened and *held*, and he's stroking Aramis's cock, giving it to him, *demanding* it even as he fucks up and in and in and *in*, and Aramis's motions are slow, weak -- 

So *weak* -- 

So -- 

Oh -- 

Oh, *no* -- "

(That's right, son... there's no choice, anymore...) 

And that's the only thing that lets him pull away, lets him -- 

And he's sobbing and *growling* as he bites his forearm open -- 

As he *presses* the wound to Aramis's trembling lips -- 

(... so you did... listen... to my lessons... about communion... after all...)

"Bloody *what*?" 

And Aramis is giggling *messily* against Porthos's arm, *exhaustedly* -- 

"Don't -- don't *waste* --" 

"*Mm*!" And then he sucks *hard* -- and starts to clench *rhythmically* -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

(I will not leave my Porthos unsatisfied...) 

"You're nearly *dead*!" 

(The *operative* word is --)

"I -- I -- *don't stop sucking*!" 

(I will *not*!) 

And Porthos snarls and bites Aramis's *hair*, because that's safe *enough*, gripping his hip with his free hand and pulling Aramis into his thrusts while Aramis -- drinks him. 

Just -- 

It's nothing like when Daddy does it. 

It's -- 

He's *feeding* his *mate*. 

He's *making* his mate *correct*, and every part of Porthos is sure he's never been hotter, never been closer to the *sun*, never been this close to burning right up from pure and holy *rightness*. 

This -- 

He *hasn't*, and he can't stop fucking his way in, trying to force his *blood* in, taking his Aramis in *every* way -- 

(He's yours, Porthos...) 

Yes, Jason, I -- 

(You'll never lose him now, son...) 

Never -- *never* --

(Taste him...) 

(One last time, son -- while he's still human.) 

Porthos snarls and bites the *back* of Aramis's neck -- 

The dog *screams* a howl within him -- 

Aramis growls into the wound he's suckling and *bounces* on Porthos's *cock* --

And the first taste of their mingled blood -- 

Their mingled *power* -- 

Porthos sobs again and clutches Aramis's hip, sobs and *croons* his way though spending up that arse, that perfect *arse* -- 

(My Porthos... will make me perfect forev--) 

And Aramis is silent after that, still and sweet in his arms, so sweet, so *good*, and Porthos can't stop thrusting, can't stop -- 

Stop *pulsing* out that bloody-slick stuff he has instead of spend now -- 

He has to *fill* his *mate* -- 

His beautiful -- 

So -- 

But...

Is he...

Porthos *stops* rutting and takes a little -- a little *stock*, for a moment, because -- 

"No, son," Daddy says, from the doorway, "he's *not* breathing at the moment --" 

"*Fuck* -- you -- I --" 

"He *will* be in just a *bit*, though, so don't panic overmuch," *Jason* says from the doorway, and that -- 

That makes *sense*, but -- 

There is not one *part* of him which isn't focused on lifting Aramis *off his cock* and just -- 

Laying him down. 

Petting him. 

Arranging him so he'll be comfortable. 

Arranging him so he'll look less -- less -- 

"Dead, son?" 

"*Yagh* -- sod *off*!" 

Daddy snickers and comes over to give Porthos's shoulder a squeeze. "I was just this insane when it was your turn, son. Though, to be fair, I wasn't in the *process* of fucking you when you left this mortal coil --" 

"Augh -- fuck fuck fuck --" 

"Mm, yes," Jason says, leaning against Porthos's armoire and tapping two fingers against his mouth. "I *could* be wrong, but I don't believe I've ever *managed* to fuck anyone *entirely* to death before..." 

"Well, there you are, lover. I told you our son was exceptional." 

Porthos -- considers responding. 

He considers it deeply, and he considers it for a while. 

In the end, though, the only thing that would happen if he *did* respond would be his *arsehole* *parents* saying something in return. 

Daddy grins at him and gives his shoulder another squeeze. "No, son...?" 

"'s too much to risk," Porthos says, blowing out the candle by the bed and cuddling up to his -- sleeping. *Sleeping*. -- Aramis.


	5. I give Athos three days. A week if someone gets in a particularly *vicious* nut-shot during a sparring match -- no, wait, that wouldn't help.

Aramis frowns at the distressingly fragrant tenement across from the alley he is lurking in. 

Athos is -- a problem. 

It is not that he cannot keep secrets -- *all* of them now know the secrets the *Captain* was keeping for Athos, but that *Treville* feels no need to -- and it is not that he is particularly prejudiced about the state his loved ones have found themselves in. 

If Athos had ever truly been a religious man -- and Treville assures Aramis that *he* had never known of such a thing, even when Athos was a boy, and still assented to be called Olivier -- he is not one *now*, and -- 

And. 

What Athos *is* -- is a Musketeer, just as his father was before him. 

More to the point, he is a Musketeer in the way that *most* of the regiment are Musketeers -- as a *singular* point of pride, honour, and *manhood* in a life he feels has been otherwise lacking of any of those things. 

*More* to the point, he is a Musketeer *in their absence*. While Athos has always been admirably modest, he is anything but *unrealistic*. He is *entirely* aware that, with Aramis and Porthos missing, *he* is the Musketeers' best man in *all* ways -- and this responsibility cuts very keenly, indeed. 

Even with a man Treville never would have chosen as Captain. 

Even with a man *demonstrably* Richelieu's *puppet* as Captain. 

While there is much they *will* be able to do from the shadows once they get their bearings -- and remove several pieces from the proverbial *board* -- they have not *yet* been able to do any of those things... and so they have been unable to prove the *worthiness* of their position to Athos. 

Still...

They have not yet let *Aramis* make their suit. 

(Right, well, just try not to actually burn Athos's tenement down until you're out of range, love.) 

My *Porthos*!

(No? How's this, then: Do not *immediately* mention all the killing we do. He gets touchy about that.)

But -- 

(I know.) 

*He* is just as violent -- 

(Daddy's theory is that he's somewhat disgusted by the idea of, you know, eating our dead. Or, well, parts of 'em.)

That is so -- *limited*!

(He *is* a bit delicate at times; you know that.) 

Not *that* delicate -- and not in that *way*. 

(No? You don't think so?) 

I do *not*, my Porthos, Aramis says, and shares his *firm* scents -- 

(I hear you, but... tell me.) 

We are offering him too much *ease*. We are offering him too much *pleasure*. We are saying to him, 'Come, dear Athos, and never work hard *again*. Never *earn* your rewards. Never *fight* to best your enemies. All will be at the tips of your fingers --'

(... fuck.) 

Yes? You see?

(That is *remarkably* awful, love, and yes, I absolutely see it. He can't even have one *off* without brutalizing his prick *and* bollocks first. What d'you think we should do about it?) 

*I* will convince him that we will put the very *heaviest* of yokes on his strong shoulders -- 

(How will you bloody do *that*?) 

Watch and see, my Porthos, Aramis says, and shares teasing scents, loving scents -- 

(Those were your *dare-you* scents, by the way.) 

Ah, it is the *same*...

And Porthos is laughing in his mind -- and Aramis is moving through the darkness -- 

Entering the tenement -- 

Easing silently up the stairs and down the hall -- 

And pausing, just in front of Athos's doorway, because Athos is in the process of *opening* the door. 

And looking at him. 

"I... how...?" 

"I'm paranoid," Athos says, and gestures him indoors. 

"I thank you, my friend," Aramis says, and breathes deep as he passes Athos -- restlessness, worry, lack of sleep, not quite *enough* inebriation -- hm. "You have not been drinking?" 

Athos's expression quirks as he looks *pointedly* at the bite-scars on Aramis's throat. "I feel remarkably attached to my self-control, of late." 

And Aramis's knows his smile is wolfish, but --

"Hmm. The answer is -- and will continue to be -- no, Aramis." 

Aramis inclines his head. 

"Yes? Already I'm enjoying your visit far more than I thought I would." 

Aramis smiles wryly. "I do have... a favour to ask." 

Athos raises an eyebrow -- just that. 

Aramis inclines his head again -- he knows he will not get more than that, yet. "We are vulnerable, my friend. More so, in some ways, than we ever were before --" 

"Your security is lax. I know nothing of Blood, but Treville knows perfectly well what must be done to --" 

"Take ourselves away from you, Athos...?" 

"Enforce the security protocols which will keep you *alive*." 

Aramis nods and looks around Athos's bare, utilitarian sitting room. There are, in fact, two chairs -- and they're even both in good repair -- but...

There are no rugs. 

The table is too small for anything but two people sharing a *small* meal. 

There is no fireplace. 

The pallet -- *not* bed -- is clearly visible through the door-less entryway. 

The window lets in countless wintry draughts. 

There is no comfort to be had, here. 

Aramis nods again -- 

"Aramis --" 

"Athos. There are things which only we can do, and which can only be done in Paris." 

Athos frowns. "I am not unaware -- it would've been asinine to assume that Treville had no... battle plans." 

Aramis steps closer. "Those battles will be won more quickly, more easily --" 

"Aramis. No." 

"-- with a sword wielded in daylight." 

Athos blinks -- and studies Aramis. 

Aramis leaves himself entirely open for it -- he has spoken no lies. 

Athos frowns more deeply. "Did you truly believe..." He draws himself up. "My loyalties remain the same, Aramis. In *every* way." 

Aramis smiles wryly. "You must understand, my friend... there is a particular... self-doubt which comes --" 

"No." 

"Athos --" 

"That was not honest." 

Aramis inhales sharply, reflexively -- and gives himself no time to recover before he inclines his head again. "Very well, my Athos. You are entirely correct -- I have no self-doubt whatsoever when it comes to this, to what I have *become*. Nor do I doubt your loyalties. Nor do I doubt your *care* for us -- for *all* of us." 

"Then why, I must ask, are we... dancing." 

Aramis takes another step closer, and flashes his teeth. Just a little. "Because, my Athos, I *very* much doubt your care for *yourself*." 

Athos blinks -- and then raises an eyebrow with pointed slowness. 

"I will not -- *cannot* -- joke with you about this. Not now." 

Athos inhales and nods. "Then simply leave it. It's not something that a conversation can fix --" 

"This, I know," Aramis says, and gestures a sweeping away. "I do not feel the need to 'fix' you, my Athos. I feel only the need to have you, and have you *close* --" 

"*No*." 

"-- and this will never happen, in *any* way -- including the *most* bloodless and *chaste*," Aramis says, *baring* his teeth, "if you persist in holding yourself apart in *every* way." 

Athos lifts his chin slowly -- and narrows his eyes. "You were not so... particular about our brotherhood before you allowed yourself to be fundamentally altered." 

"No, I was not," Aramis says, showing his teeth again and cocking his head to the side. "I lied to you -- all the time. I lied to you even when I *knew* that *you* knew I was lying -- and I could see you drowning the hurt of it in *endless* drink --" 

"Don't." 

"I lied to Porthos... I did this better, I think. Or perhaps he trusted me more. My lies only hurt him with what I was denying him. What I was denying *both* of us --" 

"And now you have it, and so do not *require* --" 

"More, my Athos...? *My* Athos, and I think you would like to make this more than words. I think that even were I still foolish enough to believe that I needed to *sacrifice* my pleasure, my need, my *love* in order to have something truly pure..." Aramis laughs low. "But I said I would not ask for... this," he says, and smiles. 

Athos's eyes are wide, and, perhaps, a little wild. 

Aramis takes the last step closer -- 

*Lets* Athos see him flaring his nostrils -- 

Lets him *think* about what he can smell -- 

What they can *all* smell when they're close to him... 

"We will talk of friendship, mm? *Brotherhood*. *Trust*. And trust in your ability to *give* yourself these things -- and give yourself *enough* of these things that you can, in your turn, provide for those who need them from *you*." 

Athos shudders. "I -- have not given... enough." 

"I submit to you, my Athos, that *none* of us have given enough, in these respects." 

"I..." Athos frowns. 

Aramis laughs, and prepares to tick off points on his fingers. "Me, with my lies. You, with your distance. Porthos, with all his *secrets* -- all to protect us from how *dark* and *base* he is, of course --" 

"But --" 

"He can be very, very dark, my Athos -- and quite perverse. And he has hidden that from *all* of us, and thus told us all *many* lies." 

Athos clenches his hands into *fists* -- 

Aramis hums and taps his fingers. "Treville, with *his* secrets -- and you already know *some*, but truly, my Athos, they are legion. His years with Jason Blood *alone* --" 

"I never." Athos *flexes* his fists --

"Yes...?" 

"I never thought. That he would have a brother... that I wouldn't know." 

"Mm. So. You see, I think, how we have all *failed*?"

"Yes. How do you mean to --" Athos frowns again, shaking his head and not -- quite -- stepping back. 

"It is not merely the sharing and shedding of blood, my Athos. All things did *not* become clear when our Porthos slipped his fangs deep and began to *drink*." 

"I -- no?" 

"No. We have had to *speak*. And *continue* to speak. And learn each other in ways..." Aramis smiles ruefully. "It is... we are learning to *work* together, my Athos." 

"As though... you are walking into the garrison for the first time..." 

"Just so. And it is the same with Treville -- and, of course, with Jason." 

Athos licks his lips. "That is... daunting," he says, in the same manner that another sort of man entirely would say 'that looks delicious' or 'I wish to make love to that woman violently.' 

Aramis does *nothing* to restrain his smile. "It all seemed so *easy* before -- so light and frivolous! -- but --" 

"It... was only that way because you were lying. Because *everyone* was lying -- when they were not keeping secrets." 

"*Oh*, yes, my Athos. This -- this takes much more effort, much more *work*, much more *thoughtfulness* and *care* --" 

"At what point will you offer to cane me -- presumably daily -- if I go home with you?" 

Well -- he may have been pushing a *little* hard, but -- "My Athos. My *brother*." 

Athos raises an eyebrow at him -- but his beautiful blue eyes are full of light. *Shining*. 

Aramis licks *his* lips -- "Take *this* truth even if you take no other from me tonight: There is nothing I would not do to bring you to us, my Athos. To *me*. There is no offer too great, too wild, too strange, too deviant, too *perverse*. I have loved you since you *allowed* me to see you. Your true self, even if only in glimpses. 

"I want more, my Athos. And I will do everything it takes to get it." 

Athos flares *his* nostrils --

Lifts a hand to the space *near* Aramis's cheek -- 

The heat of it *burns* --

Aramis shivers *hard* -- 

"Aramis -- I." 

"Do you feel how cool I am, my Athos? Think, for a moment, of the *contrast*." 

Athos makes a *guttural* sound and *clasps* Aramis's cheek and jaw -- and, for a moment, they are only panting together, staring into each other's eyes and *wanting* -- 

Aramis can *taste* Athos's *want*... just as much as he can taste Athos's refusal. 

Once Aramis can make himself *stop* panting -- if not, quite, breathing -- he smiles wryly, and turns to nuzzle Athos's palm very lightly indeed. 

"I." Athos steps back. 

Aramis nods. 

"You -- need a daylight sword. You were not lying about that," Athos says, and it isn't, quite, a question. 

"I was not." 

Athos shudders. "You need -- but you would still..." 

"I would, my Athos. I would... in a beat of your quick little heart." 

Athos blinks -- and then *looks* at him. 

Aramis laughs. "You must let me *enjoy* being monstrous, brother. Otherwise I will fall into a welter of self-loathing about everything the *Church* has to say about people who live like I do." 

"I -- would you?" 

"My Athos," Aramis says, and laughs harder, and just a little dirtier. "I have *always* been a heretic..." And he slips quickly out of Athos's rooms -- 

Quicker than the human eye can move -- 

He stays at the far end of the hall for long enough to hear Athos's breathless little huff -- 

For long enough to hear him lock *up* -- 

And then he goes. 

He has a mate to bend for; and strange, wild parents to learn from. Soon and soon he will have his brother, too. 

end.


End file.
